Goblin Slayer, Vol. 3

by Kumo Kagyu

This man… Oh, this man!

  “…Stew? In the morning?”

  Warmth spread through her chest, and a smile lit up her face.

  I’m such a light touch!

  “I’m counting on you,” he said.

  All she could muster in response was, “Gosh, I’m hopeless” before she continued to say, “If you end up oversleeping because you catch a cold, I’ll be angry. So make sure you’re up on time.”

  “All right.”

  “…Mm.”

  Cow Girl nodded.

  He never lied.

  The “something” he was dealing with could only be one thing.

  That’s why she didn’t ask anything else.

  Their day of celebration was over. Things were back to normal. Another regular day.

  Despite all she was feeling, this was not the day for showing her emotions.

  “Well, then…o-okay.”

  There was only one thing she could say to him.

  “Do your best!”

  “I will.”

  And with that he took one step, then two, away from the window with the usual careless ferocity in his gait.

  “Don’t go outside,” he said. “Stay with your uncle.”

  She watched him go until he vanished into the dark.

  Rumble, rumble. The sound came again and grew more distant along with him.

  Cow Girl saw what it was, and she chuckled to herself as she closed the window.

  “Your master does the strangest things sometimes.”

  She poked the cage with a finger, causing it to sway gently. The canary chirped its objection.

  But for once she paid it no mind.

  Half of her was pouting in anger, the other half almost floating with excitement.

  She had a sense this was not the time for these feelings—but she also wanted to go straight to bed and fall asleep still holding them to her heart.

  Her dreams would give her time enough to enjoy them.

  “But still…”

  She took off the dress, folding it carefully so it wouldn’t get wrinkled, then slid her voluptuous form into bed.

  He obviously had something in mind.

  “…Why in the world was he rolling those barrels along?”

  §

  The rain fell harder and harder as the wind grew biting.

  The night was deep now, so inky black that it was hardly possible to see past one’s nose.

  This was a true storm.

  “Ho, Beard-cutter!” Near the building that rose up out of the dark, Dwarf Shaman was calling. “I lit the furnace!”

  “Did you?” Goblin Slayer stopped his rolling barrels, now at their journey’s end, and nodded. The building—a small brick structure on the outskirts of the farm—had a chimney, but so far no smoke rose from it. “How does it look?”

  “It was awfully damp. But nothing a little magic couldn’t deal with.”

  Dwarf Shaman stroked his beard and smirked. Many of his special skills revolved around the earth, but dwarves and fire were also natural friends. It was simple enough for him to summon a Fire Salamander to ignite the sodden firewood.

  “The direction of the wind seems good for now.” High Elf Archer grabbed a spider crawling past and coaxed some silk from it, using it to restring her yew-wood bow.

  All elf equipment was made from things found in nature. They might not have magic to control the spirits of the world, but from the day they were born, elves lived in true harmony with all things. Apparently, they felt that other races were simply oblivious, but…

  It remained that there was no people in the world more suited to being rangers than the elves.

  She flapped her distinctive long ears and said, “The storm is going to be right on top of us. But for now, we’re upwind. Nature’s on our side.”

  “All right. What about the goblins?”

  “They’re getting close. We don’t have much time.”

  “I see. Let’s hurry.” Goblin Slayer nodded, then turned to Dwarf Shaman. “If you have spells to spare, try to intensify the wind. Just for good measure.”

  “Wind is the province of elves. Though I suppose I can find a bit of a gust, here…”

  “Please do.”

  Dwarf Shaman responded to Goblin Slayer’s request by pulling a fan out of his bag.

  He opened it with a snap and began to sweep at the air, chanting in a strange, high-pitched voice.

  “O sylphs, thou windy maidens fair, grant to me your kiss most rare—bless our ship with breezes fair.”

  Amid the howling of the storm, a softer current began to tickle their cheeks.

  It was a simple spell for calling the wind, of the kind a mage might use when putting on a show for pocket change.

  “That’s about as strong as she gets,” Dwarf Shaman said. “Don’t know how much good it will do you.”

  “Can’t you dwarves do anything right?” High Elf Archer chortled, drawing a barbed look from the shaman.

  “I don’t care. This is enough.” With his back to the summoned wind, Goblin Slayer began checking all his preparations.

  “How are your Dragontooth Warriors coming?”

  “Everything is prepared.”

  Lizard Priest pointed to the small fangs scattered on the ground, then made his strange hands-together gesture.

  “O horns and claws of our father, Iguanodon, thy four limbs, become two legs to walk upon the earth.”

  As his prayer resounded, the fangs grew, bubbling and rising.

  Finally, two lizardman skeletons stood before them—Dragontooth Warriors.

  Lizard Priest rested his Swordclaw on his shoulder and made an appreciative noise.

  “Unfortunately, this represents the extent of my spells. Perhaps I could borrow something in the way of weapons for them?”

  “No matter,” Goblin Slayer said, righting the barrel at his feet. “I rent the shed over there. Use any of the weapons inside.”

  “Thank you. I shall appropriate one or two of them.”

  Lizard Priest curled his tail, and he and his skeletons lumbered away to the outbuilding.

  As he took his leave, Goblin Slayer turned another barrel upright.

  There were three barrels in all. They were almost as large as he was tall.

  They also appeared to be quite heavy, packed with something inside. As he stood the barrel up, it landed with a spray of mud. It put dark spatters on Priestess’s vestments, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  “Goblin Slayer, sir, aren’t you cold?”

  “If anyone is cold, I think it would be you.”

  Her thin garments were soaked through with rain, clinging tightly to her slim form. Priestess showed just a hint of embarrassment at the skin that was barely visible through the fabric, but she shook her head.

  “No, I’m fine. This is nothing. Sometimes we perform our ablutions in ice-cold water.”

  “…You have miracles still, yes?”

  “Yes, sir, no problem.”

  Priestess smiled bravely.

  Her garments were, in fact, intended for battle, and the Earth Mother would hardly discriminate against a stain from the soil.

  To dirty her pure white clothing in the aid of another would make her that much more beautiful.

  She clutched her flail and nodded.

  “I’ve had a chance to rest since I used Silence earlier. I can manage two more.”

  “Very well.”

  Goblin Slayer used the hilt of his sword to pry open the lid of one of the barrels.

  It came off with a screech, and a raw stench mingled with the smell of the rain.

  “Ugh,” High Elf Archer said, scrunching up her face, but Priestess immediately reached into the barrel.

  “We’re out of time. I’ll help!”

  “Thanks. Please do.”

  “Sure thing!”

  “Stuff them all in there. Every last one.”

  “Got it!”

  She had pulled out a fish that had begun to rot in the sun.
<
br />   She filled her arms with them, headed over to the furnace, and shoved them inside.

  The searing hot flame was roaring now. They had not prepared it as merely a way to dry off from the rain.

  As Goblin Slayer watched her, Dwarf Shaman elbowed him in the ribs. “Got to let the girl warm herself,” he said knowingly.

  “Erk.” This came from High Elf Archer. “So what about me? I’m drenched!”

  “Yes, yes, Miss Two Millennia. I thought the elves see rain as a blessing from heaven.”

  “Elves don’t like being cold, either!”

  And they were arguing again. It was their usual friendly banter.

  Lizard Priest, who had returned from arming his Dragontooth Warriors with hoes and sickles, rolled his eyes merrily.

  “And what exactly are you planning, milord Goblin Slayer?” His tone suggested this was what interested him most.

  Goblin Slayer answered as he prepared his own equipment, making sure his shield was cinched down.

  “It should be obvious. A basic goblin-slaying tactic.”

  He straightened his helmet and pulled the dagger he had stolen from a goblin out of a sheath at his hip.

  He took a dirty rag from his pouch, carefully cleaning the blade.

  He returned it to its sheath, then chose another blade with his right hand.

  His dirty leather armor, his worthless-looking helmet, his sword that was neither long nor short, and the round shield on his arm.

  With his unchanging appearance, in his unchanging tone, he declared simply:

  “We’re going to smoke them out.”

  Goblins were approaching—twenty or thirty, perhaps.

  The smokehouse belched thick, black fumes into the storm.

  §

  For the goblins, this stormy night was a gift from above.

  Night was their friend, and the dark their ally. The very thunder was their war drum.

  Dark Elf, positioned behind them as their warlord, shared their sentiments.

  He wore a grimy leather vest under an overcoat swollen and heavy with rain. A thin sword rested at his hip.

  His skin may have been the color of pitch, his ears pointed like spikes, his hair silver—but he might still have passed for an adventurer. A good-hearted dark elf could come along once in a blue moon.

  The weapon that he clutched, though, dispelled any question.

  It was a twisted thing with an intricate pattern carved into it. At a glance, it rather resembled a candlestick.

  Who could have wrought such a thing? Even now, it stretched out its fingers as if to grasp something.

  And if all this were not enough, it glowed with the light of life, pulsating.

  No partisan of order would wish to hold such an object.

  “GOBOR!”

  “GROBR!!”

  “Mm. I care not. Continue the advance—trample them, bring them low!”

  Dark Elf nodded placidly as one of his adorably stupid goblins gave a report.

  The creatures made excellent foot soldiers but were eminently unsuited for anything else.

  Of course, with simple weapons and armor and a position on the frontlines, they were more than enough to overrun the agents of order.

  “You say there appear to be adventurers ahead? Dear fool. Quaking at shadows.”

  This was one of the cities where adventurers gathered. It was certainly possible some might be there. That was why he had deliberately arrived on the night after a festival.

  “But…shall it go well for me…?”

  Who was he to doubt the handout from the gods of chaos?

  With the cursed object I hold, I shall summon the ancient Hecatoncheir, the hundred-handed giant.

  Hecatoncheir, foremost among the fearsome giants found in the book of monsters that many believed the gods of chaos held. A creature created to do battle when the gods first began making the pieces for their war games.

  He had heard how, with the power of its countless arms, it had struck down the gods of order.

  Ah, Hecatoncheir! Hecatoncheir! Dark Elf veritably trembled with excitement.

  His actions would make more certain the coming day of victory for the forces of chaos.

  Ever since he had received his handout, he had spared no effort.

  And yet somehow…he couldn’t escape the sense that there was a flaw in his plan.

  But why should he feel that way? For what cause?

  Was it that communications with his squads to the east, west, and north had been mysteriously cut off?

  Was it that the disgruntled adventurer he had hired to cause confusion in town seemed to have entirely neglected his job?

  Or was it that all the women he had ordered his goblins to kidnap as living sacrifices had been stolen away from him?

  Could it have been a mistake that this cursed object even came to him…?

  “…No!” He bellowed as loud as he could, as if to banish his self-doubt. “The die is cast. Now there is nothing but to move forward!”

  He had just thirty goblins with him under his personal command. But they were merely decoys.

  So were the goblins approaching from the other directions. All simply to cloud the eyes of the adventurers.

  The true mission was literally in his hands.

  So long as he held this accursed thing, seat of Hecatoncheir’s power, there was nothing to fear.

  He would bide his time. Each hour, each second, wasting nothing.

  He would offer up the dice. Seeking one more person, one more drop of blood.

  Until Hecatoncheir awakened.

  “Hrk…!”

  Then it happened.

  His senses, as sharp as any elf’s, picked up something amiss.

  A smell.

  A stench, in fact, one that pierced his eyes and nose. Something rotting… No… The smell of the sea?

  The rain and wind wiped out all sound, and now they carried a black mist that blotted out what little light there was.

  It came on the wind, blanketing over his battlefield.

  “A smokescreen? No… Poison gas?!”

  He immediately covered his mouth, but unfortunately, his goblins were not so smart. The smoke enveloped them, and they began to scream and cry.

  “C-curse you! You call yourselves adventurers, yet this is what you do to your foes…?!”

  Dark Elf noticed his agitation rising, unable to restrain an angry snort.

  This was hardly a tactic that the allies of law and order would employ.

  But it was also not all that was in store.

  Skeleton warriors emerged from the cloud, pale white against the black smoke, and laid into the goblins.

  §

  “You said you didn’t set any traps, Beard-cutter!”

  “I didn’t.”

  Goblin Slayer spoke as they watched the goblins fall like wheat to a scythe.

  “I did not say I had no plan.”

  “Oi.”

  “There is always a way. Often many.”

  “Oi.”

  The Dragontooth Warriors were truly terrible to behold on the battlefield.

  They were only bones, lacking eyes, noses, and any need to breathe. The rotting fish smog had no ill effect on them.

  The goblins were hacking and coughing in the cloud, swinging their weapons blindly. How easily the fossilized warriors overpowered them. One swing of a sickle severed a head. With a strike of the hoe, an arm went careening. The smell of blood and the reek of the goblins’ own bodies joined the stench of fish in the air.

  Perhaps hell smelled this way.

  “You’re not kidding,” High Elf Archer said, scrunching up her face and covering her mouth and nose with a cloth. “You always have something up your sleeve for times like these, Orcbolg.”

  That was what made him the leader of their party.

  High Elf Archer may have had more experience (or so she fancied), and Lizard Priest was perhaps a calmer head.

  But when it came to sheer number of unor
thodox strategies…

  “But you can’t use it on our adventure, all right? I’ll get angry if you do.”

  “Not this one, either?”

  “Of course not.”

  “I see.”

  Priestess giggled at his dejected response.

  “Are you that disappointed?”

  “When outnumbered by the enemy, it’s an effective way to slow the vanguard,” Goblin Slayer explained neutrally, then nodded with a grunt. “They search and investigate and become more anxious. They doubt what will come next. It’s sleight of hand.”

  “I’m not sure those are really the same thing…”

  No sooner had she said this than Priestess looked up at the battlefield as if she had sensed something. Her eyes went wide.

  “Oh…!”

  She trembled mightily as she called out, then leaped in front of the rest of the party.

  Before anyone could stop her, she raised first her flail, and then her voice.

  “O Earth Mother, abounding in mercy, by the power of the land grant safety to we who are weak!”

  She implored the gods for a miracle. The all-compassionate Earth Mother bestowed her with an invisible barrier, centered around the staff she held in the air.

  At that instant, the words of an ancient tongue rang out across the battlefield.

  “Omnis…nodos…libero!” I unbind all that is bound!

  An exploding light blinded them. A sheath of whiteness cut through the dark rain and enveloped everything.

  It pierced the battlefield, cleared away the smoke, and shattered the Dragontooth Warriors. The skeletal soldiers collapsed like sacks of bricks.

  The light pulsed across the battlefield again, catching several goblins and turning them to dust—

  “Hrr…rrr…”

  —until, with a crash, it slammed against the invisible barrier and vanished.

  The rain whipped into a whirlwind, now with yet another strange smell intermingled with it.

  Priestess reeled drunkenly, unable to completely absorb the spiritual shock of such an impact.

  Goblin Slayer used his shielded left hand to hold her and keep her upright.

  “I… I’m sorry…”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “N-no, my b-body is fine…” The blood had drained from her face, and she bit her lip regretfully. “But I… I only have one miracle left now…”

  “No.” Goblin Slayer shook his head. “It’s enough.”

  The dark clouds that had covered the battlefield had been burned away.