Goblin War Chief

by Gerhard Gehrke

  Thistle squeezed his hands. She had more questions, but they could wait.

  “We’ll get that ring out of your mouth once we make it to Mire Linda. They’ll have tools there. For now, we’ll call you Papa.”

  Chapter Five

  I’ve set down on the prior page the list of hunters from Boarhead who fell. As time permits, I will add all the names from both Thousand Groves and Boarhead. I’ve decided to keep my notebook out of sight, as Noe scowls whenever she sees it. But many of the hunters in the party have tales to tell, and I want to hear them all.

  It was Wren who needed a hand walking, while Papa managed to keep his balance as they crossed the muddy grassland. They hadn’t been on a trail all day, instead making their own path through head-high vegetation and tromping through calf-deep muck. The overcast concealed the sun and gave the air a timeless quality. There was no wind and no birds and the air remained chilly and silent.

  Wren had to rest a few times even as Thistle tried to hurry him along. Only Papa waited. The other hunters advanced out of sight.

  Thistle crouched in front of the apprentice doctor. “They’re going to leave us behind. The coyotes will get you.”

  “You won’t let that happen. I just need a minute.”

  “Is it the ribs or are you feeling dizzy again?”

  “Both. Plus a shooting pain up my right leg.” He again ingested a drop from the vial. “That’ll help. I’ll be up. You can go on ahead.”

  She rose and scanned the tall grass. Papa rested on his haunches and stared at nothing, appearing content to linger. It was as if the three of them were the only ones left in the world. But after a moment Wren got up and worked his leg before setting out. With the horses in tow, the goblin party was easy to track. Soon enough they caught up with the rearmost hunter, who gave Thistle a look of irritation. Finally they left the grass behind them and were moving among trees.

  A few streams meandered through the soft ground. Papa stopped at one to splash water on his face. He drank. Thistle paused and waited, but then the older goblin was knee-deep in the stream and washing himself.

  “We’re getting left behind,” Wren said. “What’s he doing?”

  “Go on. I’ll catch up.” Thistle waded over to Papa. The water was icy cold. “Come on. We have to keep up.”

  Papa continued to douse himself. Thistle grabbed his elbow but Papa made a wordless sound of protest and jerked away.

  “There’ll be time for this later.”

  From nearby, a horse whinnied, accompanied by hoofbeats.

  Not hesitating, Thistle seized the older goblin’s arm and hauled him to the shore, where she pulled him down into the cover of a buttonbrush.

  Two horsemen appeared.

  Her breath caught.

  It was Lord and one of his men. They had risen from the dead and were coming to find her. They wouldn’t stop until every goblin from Boarhead was dead. But even as a scream built in her throat, she forced herself to calm down.

  Whereas Lord’s horse had been large and well fed, these animals appeared smaller and lean. Lord himself had been a massive specimen of human who carried an equally huge sword. Neither of the humans was anything close to his size, and they wore only scant armor that looked cobbled together. These men had spears strapped on their backs. They were no soldiers of Pinnacle.

  Lord and his men were all gone. But that didn’t make these men any less dangerous.

  Papa began to make a mewling sound. Thistle had to clamp her hand over his mouth and hug him tight as he squirmed.

  “Shhh.”

  The riders maneuvered their animals to the stream where Papa had been bathing. They dismounted and let their animals drink. Both the men wore soiled sleeveless shirts over their armor that had once been white. A gold necklace dangled around one man’s neck.

  The man with the necklace handed the reins of his horse to the other soldier. He then crouched and examined the mud on the bank of the stream. The goblins had all passed that way along with their captured horses. The man would have to be blind to miss the prints.

  Gold Necklace ran his fingers along the ground. “They were by this way.”

  Papa continued to writhe in Thistle’s grip but at least he was doing it quietly. If Thistle had to run, there would be no way she could drag the older goblin along. And she knew she could never evade the men on their horses.

  The second soldier scanned the vegetation with renewed vigilance. He squinted. “Something here.”

  He released the reins and his hand went to a long knife in his belt. He began to walk towards the buttonbrush where Thistle and Papa were hiding.

  The hoot of an owl pierced the air.

  The man froze and then began to back up. When the owl sounded a second time, he hurried back to the horses where Gold Necklace was already climbing into his saddle. With a final look behind them, they both galloped away.

  “Thistle?”

  Wren came through the grass and beckoned for her to follow. Leading Papa behind her, she hurried after him.

  “You okay?” Wren asked as he hobbled along beside them.

  Thistle nodded. “Thanks. But an owl cry won’t stop them from chasing us. And there might be more.”

  “Then let’s hurry.”

  Chapter Six

  We’ve taken into our company an older goblin who I named Papa, as his ability to speak sensibly is restricted. I’ve decided to care for him as best I can as none of the others have the correct disposition.

  The best way we have of communicating is through sign language and crude drawing.

  Oh, if only I had enough paper. But for now this must suffice. His story, like all of ours, needs to be told.

  Thistle tried to stay awake and listen for Noe’s group to return, but exhaustion got the better of her and she slumbered, wrapped in the thin blanket provided her by Noe the first night after being rescued.

  “Shut up, will you?” a voice growled.

  Her eyes popped open and she saw it was near dawn. Arens was standing over Papa, who was digging a deep trench in the soft soil nearby. The older goblin was singing. It was a wordless song, childlike with a barely discernable melody. It was also loud.

  “Thistle, make him stop!”

  Thistle stepped into the freshly dug pit. Papa had dropped a cloth in the center of his hole and had placed a collection of slimy worms on top of it. He was reaching a new height in his current refrain.

  She put an arm around him and whispered, “That’s quite the song. But it’s not time for singing right now.”

  He began to nod, then belted out another garbled verse. Several other goblins were up now, hissing for him to be quiet. Arens slid down and grabbed Papa by an arm and shook him.

  “Let go of him!” Thistle said. “You’ll hurt him.”

  Before Arens could reply, Papa bit his fingers. Arens shrieked and scrambled back out of the hole.

  “He bit me! He’s crazy!”

  Arens continued to howl. Papa was laughing.

  Speaking softly, Thistle said, “Shh. Papa, why don’t you show me what you’ve found?”

  Papa’s face brightened as he crouched over his treasure of worms. Many of his squirming prizes had made it over the edge of the cloth and were burrowing back into the soil. Papa spoke what sounded like chiding words as he grabbed up the escapees and proceeded to slurp them down without bothering to brush them clean. But at least he was no longer crooning.

  Thistle watched and soothed him with quiet whispers of encouragement.

  “We can’t have him with us,” Arens said.

  “He’s quiet now, Arens. But you’re not.”

  Wren appeared at the hunter’s side. “Let me see.” He examined the knuckles. “Didn’t break the skin. I prescribe a day of light work.”

  Arens jerked his hands away. “Noe will hear about this.”

  Thistle handed Papa another worm. “At your current volume, she’s hearing it already.”

  “He doesn’t belong with us. He’s
mad.”

  Papa rolled the worm about in his hands before eating it.

  Thistle stroked his head before standing to face Arens. “He’s one of us as much as you or I. He needs our care and compassion.”

  Arens strode away.

  Wren crouched at the edge of the hole. “Was Papa digging all night? It’s quite the excavation.”

  “I don’t know. Help me watch him. Arens is right; we need to keep him quiet.”

  Papa offered Thistle a worm.

  “No thanks, Papa.”

  “Well, at least he found breakfast,” Wren said cheerfully.

  Noe pushed the group hard the whole morning and kept her team of hunters at the rear. It meant Wren was goaded to hurry up. Thistle tried to hang back to assist, but keeping Papa moving and not distracted by termite-eaten logs or streambeds with possible edibles required her complete attention. But Wren kept up.

  They finally paused at midday atop a wooded hill with an excellent vantage point over the ground they had just crossed.

  Noe consulted with Ramus. Arens lingered nearby, his face darkening when Thistle cut in front of him to speak with her.

  “What happened out there?” Thistle asked.

  Noe’s voice was flat. She sounded exhausted. “The two horsemen you saw were part of a larger group. At least a dozen riders.”

  Thistle’s stomach began to feel queasy. “Who are they?”

  “Part of the same group with white shirts. That puts them with Pater’s faction, so not Pinnacle or a remnant from Lord’s raid. Judging by the horses and equipment, they aren’t from any of the villages nearby.”

  “Why are they here?”

  “There’s no way to be certain. We evaded them. They found our trail. Probably like you said, the horses with us leave their marks on the earth.”

  “Then we get rid of the animals.”

  Noe crunched on a few pine nuts. “I’ll take that under advisement. But we’re a day out from the swamp. I know these hills and the ground between here and Mire Linda. They won’t catch us. And the horses are worth too much to just cut them loose.”

  Ramus had been silent during the exchange. “Let’s set a trap for them. If they’re after us, we can ambush them and kill them before they know what’s happening.”

  “You can’t fight them,” Thistle blurted. “They’re better trained, they have armor, and better weapons.”

  “It’s not your place to speak here,” Ramus said.

  “I’ve seen what humans on horses can do to goblins who’ve never stood up to mounted soldiers. How did our hunting party fare when you tried to fight?”

  Ramus turned away from her. She felt a rush of shame. Her words had been cruel.

  “You’re right, Thistle,” Noe said. “We won’t stand to fight. At least not yet. For now, we continue and evade them. Once they’re off our trail, we make the best time we can for my village. Then we’ll see what forces we have available to us.”

  Noe turned and signaled a few of the other hunters that their short break was over.

  “Who is coming to help?” Thistle asked.

  “That remains to be seen. We’re but a scouting party. My messengers went to all of Athra. My hope is to find warriors from every goblin village waiting for our return. Then we form up a war party of our own and strike back at the humans.”

  Chapter Seven

  Papa is trying to tell me something. He draws in the dirt every chance he gets when we’re not moving and not foraging. I ignored it at first. He hadn’t repeated his performance with the worms and was doing his best to keep up and not make anyone mad at him.

  But again and again he scratches out three of family.

  I was never one for drawing. That was always your thing, Spicy.

  If Somni caught me doodling, he would rant in his cool way about wasting a page of paper and make me feel guilty by reminding me that I could dismissed as an apprentice to become one of his weekend students. There I would have to be content with a primer and knowing my letters, with my future writ in toil and childbearing.

  I could assume Papa’s mind is vacant as the others have done. But he is so insistent on my seeing what he draws.

  Once more, he’s drawing the figures. But I noticed when he points to himself, he points to his mouth before gesturing towards the drawing. Then he scratches away the ones I assume are his wife and two children. But this time, as if for emphasis, he clacks his remaining back teeth and manages to grin.

  “Another lesson?” Wren asked. He crouched next to Thistle and Papa and offered her a slab of mudfish, washed but still raw.

  Thistle took it and sniffed it. The fish lived up to its name. An earthy smell mixed with the aroma of mysterious chalky muck initiated her gag reflex. She handed the piece of fish to Papa, who slurped it down with glee.

  She pointed at the drawing. “I keep wanting to think he misses his family and they were taken from him or killed. But there’s something more to this.”

  “You’re going to want to eat something before we set out.”

  “If all we have is more of the mudfish, I’ll be fine.”

  “We’re heading to Mire Linda. You think you’ll be getting rice with fresh stream trout there? The place lives up to its name.”

  “Don’t be rude. They’re as civilized as any of the rest of us. Not every village can have abundant apple orchards and perfect pasture grounds and rice fields.”

  “I heard they let their children roam free and let the land teach the harshest lessons. The ones who survive the quicksand and bears grow into healthy swamp savages and catch eels with their teeth.”

  She laughed despite her embarrassed reaction to such nonsense. Noe wasn’t anywhere nearby to hear, but a few of the other goblins were. She didn’t know where they were all from, but surely some might have been from the village Wren was happily maligning.

  “Papa and you are going to fit right in,” he continued. “You’ll find yourself a mud husband and have a dozen mud babies to turn out into the swamp. Each night you’ll be rewarded with your catch of the day, be it mudfish or mud cray or mud mushrooms you can only hope weren’t growing over anyone’s mud privy.”

  She punched his shoulder. He winced in mock pain.

  “If we’re setting out, you better get a head start,” she said. “A limping duck like yourself is too easy to track.”

  “We’ll walk together.”

  “I’m going to help Papa and you’re a distraction. Now go.”

  “I liked hearing you laugh. No one’s laughed since this all started.”

  She just nodded and helped Papa to his feet.

  They traveled the day with only a brief stop to forage and in the evening ended where a freshwater spring churned and formed a crystal-clear pool. The goblins took their turn in drinking deep from the clean water. Noe paused to notch a tree where a dozen other marks bore witness to the passage of other hunting parties.

  Thistle had missed the marks and now scanned her surroundings for other signs that they were in friendly territory.

  The party kept its guards in place as they prepared for the night. Foragers returned at dusk with a few catfish. Noe forbade a fire so they carved the fish up and divided the pieces among the goblins, who ate with no comment. Thistle tried to think of all the early spring weeks when the winter thaw had delayed planting and Boarhead’s drying houses were running lean on supplies. She had been too young to remember the last bad year when anyone had truly been left hungry. Spicy had still been weaning.

  Her father had taught her that some food—any food—would be the difference between life and starvation.

  She knew how to eat without tasting, but the catfish was fatty and surprisingly sweet.

  Wren watched her eat before placing his own morsel in his mouth.

  Why was he so interested in her well-being? She had been through too much and could barely contain her thoughts and emotions, letting exhaustion set the pace so she wouldn’t dwell on her sorrow. The last thing she needed was
a boy trying to woo her.

  Papa sat next to her, his eyes closed as he slowly chewed. He was smiling. The ring in his jaw continued to disfigure his expression, but the sheer joy on his face reminded her that small things could bring great comfort.

  She pointed to the ring. “Why did they do this?”

  He looked at her as if not understanding. Once again, he drew the four figures: two tall, two short. Then he pointed to his mouth.

  She showed that she had nothing to offer him. “You’ve eaten. That’s all there is for now. We’ve made camp and Noe doesn’t want any of us wandering off.”

  He took her hand as if he was going to bite her. She yanked it back. He grinned his toothless grin and shook his head. Then he pointed to one of the stick figures and mock-bit his own hand.

  “Wait a minute,” Thistle said. “That’s not you, is it? Is that another goblin? A relative?”

  Papa raised his hand above his head as if measuring something taller.

  “A human. That’s a human.” She pretended to bite her own hand. “You bit one of the humans.”

  The older goblin grunted and then wiped the figures away.

  Thistle shook her head. “I’m sorry, Papa, I don’t follow.” But as she looked at the drawing, she saw the first figure remained. “These others…were they humans too?”

  He shook his head.

  “Goblins, then. Ones who were with you. Your family? What did they do?”

  But Papa was scratching random lines in the sand that appeared to have no meaning before finally lying down on one arm and closing his eyes. Thistle studied the new markings on the ground. What had this goblin been through? Had biting his human master resulted in his losing his family? His children? And then the sinking of the metal ring though his jaw.

  She shuddered.

  Perhaps those who had died quickly during Lord’s raid had been dealt an act of kindness compared to such barbarity. What were Spicy or Rime or any of the stolen children now facing?