Goblin War Chief

by Gerhard Gehrke

  There would be no way to know. Either they would return to Athra or they would vanish into the human world to be treated worse than animals.

  She placed her hand on her notebook. It was once again too dark to easily write. But before any of what she had learned faded, it had to be recorded. Pushing thoughts of family and friends aside, she scribbled her notes and tried to find words that best fit the unknown nightmare of Papa’s journey.

  Chapter Eight

  The humans had called Athra the Monster Lands.

  Thistle called it home.

  Even as the marshes remained far from Boarhead and unfamiliar, setting foot into the boggy land filled her with a fond comfort that surprised her.

  The trees of the marshes bore more signs of goblins, notches placed at barely distinguishable game trails. Thistle even spotted the trace of an old fire ring.

  They had to slosh through a sodden field of tall grass before finally finding a clear path on dry ground. One hunter led them to a grove among the pines where on several apple trees the remnants of the late fall’s bounty were dangling from the higher branches. Some of the apples had worms, but the goblins picked them clean and scoured the grass for any that had fallen.

  Papa munched on more than his share, even popping discarded cores into his mouth and eating all but the stem.

  Thistle stopped him from picking up another. “Don’t eat too many. You’ll get a stomachache.”

  He nodded as if he understood, then grabbed a half-composted apple and began eating it. Something in his mouth proved hard to swallow. He gagged, coughed, and spat out a disagreeable lump of core and seeds.

  Noe held a cluster of chickweed, which she blew free of dust before shoving it into her mouth. “He’s like a child, isn’t he? Have you learned anything about him?”

  “The humans took his family. I can’t tell who, whether it was a wife or children or if he was a child and they took his parents and siblings. I believe he bit one of the humans and it cost him his loved ones.”

  “Murder. You call it what it is. Lord’s not the first to attack our villages, just the first to make it so far into the hills. They’ve always avoided Athra because here we are many and the land helps protect us.”

  “Have you ever seen humans do this to anyone else?” Thistle asked. “Not just harming his body but his mind?”

  “We’ve saved a few slaves throughout the years and heard of others who were being held. But no, nothing like this. We’ve never ventured as far as Mother Mountain, either. Chief’s orders. Didn’t your sages speak of what humans would do to us?”

  Thistle shook her head.

  “Of course they didn’t,” Noe said in an icy tone. “Kept blinders on to the reality of what the world is in favor of dreams of what might be.”

  “What would you have the sages do?” Thistle asked.

  “Anything is better than turning a blind eye to this.”

  “You think they’d ignore this if they saw it? We’ve kept away from the humans as much as possible. If such things were known, they’d be recorded—”

  “And for what purpose? So those few who would bother to read it could wring their hands at how awful the men of the Inland Sea are, cry at the plight of wretches as these, and sing a song about it, only to forget by the morrow and pen a poem of woodpeckers, plum blossoms, or their cursed navels?”

  “I don’t know, all right? My sage did all he could to preserve everything we’ve ever known, and he took his responsibility to not forget who we are to heart. It’s what he was teaching me.”

  “So you could write it all down even though there’s no one left to read it.”

  “Someone will.”

  Noe finished off the last of the chickweed and brushed her fingers clean on her blouse. “You’re intelligent and have much to offer, Thistle. But I cringe at the thought your talents will be wasted while we need goblins like you to fight.”

  “I’m no warrior. And remembering is important. It’s how we avoid making the same mistakes of our forefathers.”

  “What good did that knowledge do to your dead sage?”

  Noe didn’t wait for Thistle to answer before leaving her.

  Thistle thought of a dozen replies, all too late.

  An exchange of bird calls went up between the lead hunters and a group of new goblins who emerged from the forest ahead. The new faces greeted several in the party with excited whups and hugs. Thistle, Papa, and Wren were escorted along with the others into a sizeable village where a crowd of goblins waited. It was the kind of reception Boarhead might throw for a great hunt after its hunters’ return. Goblins lined the village thoroughfare. Among them Thistle recognized styles of headwear and dress distinctive to a dozen villages with which Boarhead traded and socialized.

  The residents of Mire Linda stood out among them, with few colors and little finery. The men, women, and children were healthy but lean. Many had faces and arms marked with tattoos but there were few piercings. Some wore flowers and displayed jewelry of polished metal and shining glass. But no smiles were on any of the locals’ faces.

  But the mood of the crowd wasn’t dampened. An ebullient buzz hung in the air. The news of the raid had spread and here was the reply. Thistle experienced an overwhelming urge to unleash the dammed-up feelings within her. Experienced goblin warriors would take charge and rescue her brother and the others. There was hope now that it would all be better, and the ones lost could finally be mourned.

  Papa eyed the crowd, looking like a rabbit about to bolt.

  Thistle took his arm. “Be calm. These are your people. No one here will hurt you.”

  Two goblins approached from a group sitting on a collection of stumps near a firepit, one mustard-skinned, one green, both youths her age whom she recognized well.

  “One Stone! Preemie!”

  The three embraced. The two were her brother’s peers and had been hunters-in-training in Boarhead.

  “We heard you were alive along with Spicy,” One Stone said with his telltale lisp.

  His father had sharpened One Stone’s front teeth, and the youth had embraced with relish the role of ambitious young hunter on track to be huntmaster. The other boys were always in a hurry to please him. All of them, except her brother. And as much as she had ignored such jockeying for status and rolled her eyes at flashy displays of bravado among the teen boys, One Stone did have skills and had been the first of them to kill his own deer.

  Young men like him were needed.

  “You’re safe now,” Preemie said.

  Thistle nodded. “As safe as can be. But Spicy, Rime, and the children are still lost to us. Tell me, how many others still live?”

  Preemie looked at One Stone, who answered. “Twenty-five of us.”

  She nodded and let the number sink in. She didn’t want to do the simple math that let her know their village had been devasted beyond recovery. Rebuilding with so few would be futile. With winter bearing down on them, they would have to look to their neighbors to take them in.

  “Who’s in charge?”

  One Stone hesitated. “Me, I guess. Jinty put it to a vote. I’m chief. But some of the men from Firebloom offered to take us in. That was when we got word of the meeting of warriors here. Is it true? Is Somni dead?”

  “It’s true.”

  “Well, you’re rescued. Tomorrow you’ll go with a guide to collect the other survivors hiding near Boarhead, and then to Firebloom for the winter.”

  “And you and Preemie?”

  “The war council,” Preemie said. “We’re here because we want to fight the humans.”

  Chapter Nine

  Papa was screaming.

  It was an animal cry, like a sheep that knew it was going to the slaughter.

  Thistle had just sat down, a little girl handing her a steaming plate of beans and vegetables, when the commotion started. She set the dish aside and rushed over to where Wren and an adult goblin were wrestling Papa to the ground. Another goblin wearing an apron and holding a
small bolt cutter and pliers stood watching.

  “What are you doing?” she cried. “Let him go!”

  Wren was having trouble keeping Papa’s hand from clawing at his face. “We’re trying to help him. Tell him to calm down.”

  Papa continued to kick and push at both goblins.

  “I can’t do anything with him wriggling around like that,” the goblin with the tools said.

  “Stop grabbing him.” Thistle knelt before Papa and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Papa, it’s me. Calm down. No one is going to hurt you. They only wanted to help with the ring in your mouth.”

  Wren and the other man let him go. Papa scrambled to his feet as he clung to Thistle. He was whimpering.

  Slowly so as not to alarm him, Thistle touched the ring. The metal where it emerged from under the jaw was encrusted with seepage. It had no visible gap where the ring had been closed. The front of Papa’s mouth let loose a string of drool.

  “It will only take a moment,” she said. “This goblin here is a metalworker.”

  The blacksmith nodded. “It won’t hurt.”

  “Once it’s out, we set a salve to the wound,” Wren added. “It looks like it’s infected.”

  Papa was shaking his head. When the blacksmith took a step forward, he tensed up and made a squealing sound.

  Thistle raised a hand to the blacksmith. “Why don’t we wait? Papa, they can do this later. I know this is all a lot to take in. No one’s going to do anything until you’re ready. But we will need to take it out so you can get better.”

  Papa maintained a vice grip on her arm. Even after the blacksmith and his helper moved away, he didn’t let go. Wren followed as Thistle led him back to where her plate of food waited. She sat down with Papa and tried to feed him.

  He didn’t appear interested in the food. His eyes remained wary, his body tense. Nearby goblins stared at Papa in naked astonishment. Thistle rubbed the old man’s back.

  “It’s going to be okay. These are all your kind. Your friends. I’ll be sure you’re cared for. No one here will hurt you like the humans did.”

  Wren crouched next to them. “The sooner we get that ring out, the better. It looks like it’s been in there for months. Longer, maybe. It’s a miracle it hasn’t gotten infected before now and killed him.”

  “Not right now,” Thistle said. “I’m guessing he hasn’t ever been around so many people.”

  Wren let out an exhausted sigh and plopped down on the dirt. He eyed the plate of food.

  “Don’t even think about it,” Thistle said. “There’s a girl handing out plates by the fire. Bring one for Papa while you’re up.”

  He made a face of mock-injury. “Do my own injuries count for nothing?”

  “Rumor has it you’re a doctor, or at least one in training. I’m sure you can answer that while getting two plates. And bring any water or wine you can find.”

  More fires were lit as dusk settled over Mire Linda. A throng of goblins pressed into the center of the village until there was little room to move about. Thistle noticed distinct groups had formed up. She recognized a face from Firebloom—a huntmaster named Eleck who sat near the center fire with his three sons. Other villages had sent larger delegations with over twenty warriors or hunters, but Eleck held everyone’s attention.

  Thistle scanned the crowd. Where were the senior goblins from Mire Linda?

  Wren settled down next to her, having secured his own plate of food and a bottle of rice wine. Papa was leaning on the wall of the home behind them, his knees drawn up to his chest, a platter licked clean at his feet. Preemie and One Stone sat nearby. One Stone seemed intent on the buzz of activity and was ignoring Preemie, who chattered nonstop.

  Noe appeared. She was moving from group to group, greeting some by name, introducing herself to others. She finally made it to Eleck.

  “Where’s Chief Valens?” Eleck said in a loud voice.

  Noe straightened. “Valens is delayed. I speak for him. Mire Linda welcomes you and your warriors, Huntmaster Eleck. I welcome you. This war council is now in session.”

  Eleck let out a rough bark of a laugh. “War council? I see as many boys as hunters, and very few I would consider warriors. I’ve been here for a week and have seen only ten who know anything about war. The messages which came to us here made little sense. And who are you to address me thus?”

  “I apologize for not being here to meet you, Huntmaster Eleck. I thought you knew who I am. Call me Noe. I led the warband who pursued the raiders.”

  “You’re Valens’s wife. Why were you the one in charge?”

  Thistle sat forward to better hear. She had failed to uncover any details about Chief Valens.

  “Because I was the goblin who picked up my bow and took action. The hunters who ran with me will speak to my merits. The men who raided Athra are no more. My messengers sent the message that a dragon killed them, and that’s what happened. We rescued two of the captives from Boarhead. More importantly, we let the humans in the land above the Inland Sea know of our presence.”

  “Meaning what?” Eleck asked.

  “Meaning we struck back and will set out on a raid to mete further justice to the humans.”

  “Flowery words for violence. You don’t play at war, woman. We’ve already taken some of the survivors from Thousand Groves and Boarhead and are bringing them back to Firebloom. We’ll take in any of the others who haven’t found shelter here. Your ‘warband’ is dissolved. The last thing we want is further trouble with the humans.”

  Eleck began to rise.

  “Sit down,” Noe said.

  A murmur went up from the crowd.

  “You dare? Why, when Chief Valens hears of your rude—”

  “Valens is delayed. That means I’m the one who speaks for this village. I also speak for every goblin of Athra, as well from the area around the sea, who doesn’t want to wait for the humans to attack us again, to murder us, to steal our children. You speak of further trouble? The trouble has never ended for some of us.

  “You hide up in the hills beyond the Fallen Ridges and wring your hands, saying ‘too bad, too bad’ whenever you hear of a village attacked by human hunters with their dogs, or a family of goblins stolen into slavery. It took two villages being razed to pry you loose from your high perch, and the best you can do is come down to my village to disapprove of our actions. For those you shelter, I give thanks. See to them. But don’t you dare judge me as rude. I am doing what you and your generation failed to do for our kind.”

  “And what is that?” Eleck asked between gritted teeth.

  “Sending a clear message to the humans. To attack us means death.”

  Chapter Ten

  Too many voices spoke at once. Thistle heard questions, challenges, and oaths. Huntmaster Eleck just glowered at Noe while she appeared content to let the clamor die down.

  “Where is your sage?” a goblin from one of the largest groups asked. His face was dark as a plum and he held a spear twice his height against a shoulder. Others fell silent and he repeated his request. “If your chief can’t be here, surely your sage will speak wisdom.”

  “Mire Linda has no sage, Chief Gelid,” Noe said. “Most villages down here have none and prosper for it. The raiders murdered at least three of them, and perhaps the one from Turtle Rock. And as I’ve learned, the sages could have warned us of the raiders before they ever struck.”

  “Speak truth,” Eleck said. “No one knew they were coming. Such foolishness.”

  “The truth of it is that Sage Glomer of Blackpool sent scouts to find Somni and Thurten to summon them to his village. This in the face of the human incursion. The purpose of their meeting is unclear. Perhaps they were going to consult their texts on what to do even as they turned their backs on Athra. I have survivors with me who will speak to the truth of this. Mire Linda rejects the sages, who would leave their friends and neighbors to be savaged and murdered all in the name of saving their so-called knowledge.”

  Thistle
tried to remember what exactly Spicy had told her during their brief time together. She knew of no such scouts, although Somni had been preparing to leave on one of his mysterious journeys right before Lord’s men had attacked. Noe’s party did have a pair of hunters from Blackpool where Sage Glomer lived. She hadn’t spoken to either during their journey.

  A nearby woman spoke up. She wore enough gold bracelets that she didn’t appear to be a local. “But a sage will tell us if this is a wise course.”

  A few others murmured their agreement.

  “They’re all gone,” a man said.

  “We have one here,” Wren said as he struggled to rise. “We have a sage.”

  Thistle turned, surprised at his words. Then she realized he was gesturing towards her.

  “This is Thistle from Boarhead,” Wren said. “She studied under Sage Somni. Let her advise us.”

  She shook her head and mouthed “No!”

  But it was too late. Everyone had heard and was looking her direction. Several goblins laughed. Noe looked angry but kept silent as Huntmaster Eleck gestured for Thistle to speak.

  Thistle’s throat was dry as chalk. “I’m only an apprentice.”

  “Louder!” someone from the back called.

  “I’m an apprentice. I served Sage Somni from Boarhead as his head assistant for two years.”

  One yellow-faced goblin rolled his eyes.

  She licked her lips and continued. “I will record what is said here, but I don’t have the wisdom to give counsel on our course.”

  Eleck nodded his thanks. “Well, that’s settled. We have no sage present and must rely on our collective judgment for a decision. You wish to send a message to the humans, Noe? And how would you do such a thing? They are many while we are few. As we saw from their raid, they have horses and arms superior to ours. We stand no chance in a battle nor a war. What we suffered is a tragedy, but we will find hope in our resilience as we have for generations. The humans will again fall ill. Their numbers will collapse with the next plague or series of harsh winters.”