Goblin War Chief

by Gerhard Gehrke

  But where were the human defenders? Were there no soldiers within the village?

  Even as the question crossed Thistle’s mind, a goblin cried out and fell to the dirt. He hurried to get up again, scurrying away from a garden where a human woman was swinging a wood axe about and screaming a challenge at a pack of hunters. They reeled away from her as she advanced. The goblins around her appeared quite young. How many of them had faced down anything fiercer than a cornered buck?

  The woman charged the gang of goblins and narrowly missed one as she chopped her axe into the ground where he had just been. One of the goblins with grass woven in his hair for camouflage ran past Thistle, shouting for help. Another went to scoop up a fellow goblin who had stumbled as they both evaded another swing of the axe.

  Thistle snatched the bow away from Preemie. The arrow fell to the ground and she grabbed it. She hadn’t used a bow often and had never been particularly adept at hunting small game during her early adolescent years. Her meager skills had deteriorated further as her time as a sage’s apprentice precluded practice time with the bow.

  But the woman now charging her was a big target.

  Without thinking, she pulled back on the string and fired. Her shot was sloppy. The bowstring slipped off her sweaty fingers before it had been fully drawn. But the missile hit its mark, sinking into the woman’s thigh. The human stumbled and fell, the axe tumbling from her hands. A nearby hunter wasted no time in rushing her. He clocked her over the head with the butt of his spear. The woman went down.

  The nearest goblins looked to one another and then to Thistle.

  “I’m sorry,” Thistle blurted. She was horrified at what she had just done.

  The goblin with the grass in his hair slapped her shoulder as he returned.

  She handed the bow back to Preemie. He had to be prodded a few times before he accepted it. He was making a gagging sound as if trying to hold back from vomiting. All she felt was numb.

  The other goblins had surrounded the woman, who was coming to. One kept thrusting his spear at her face and laughed as she flinched.

  Thistle walked up behind them. “She’s unarmed. Leave her alone.”

  The goblins ignored her.

  “Stick her.” “Stab her.” “Make her bleed!” The taunts continued as the gathered hunters egged on the one with the spear.

  One Stone had joined the group. She saw something on the boy’s face she had seen before among the human mercenaries. He readied an arrow and fired it into the woman. The woman screamed and renewed her efforts to break away from the goblins. But the hunter with the spear ran her through. The others fell on her with their own weapons.

  Thistle stood and watched.

  When it was over, she continued to stare until she felt Wren tug at her arm.

  “Come on. Let’s go.”

  She nodded, though she could barely register what he’d said. But she followed as he led her away.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Thistle sat by the village well. Wren handed her a ladle of water. It was cold and good and she sipped at it slowly. Other goblins drank their fill using a bucket as a few others washed their hands and faces clean of blood at a horse trough.

  A nearby warrior, one of Gelid’s, waited his turn. On his face were long, thick lines of red that were too purposeful to be an accident. He accepted the ladle from Wren. The water dribbled down his chin as he gulped it down. He grinned, his bright white teeth contrasting with his blood-painted yellow skin. He then presented his left hand. His middle finger had been bent backward and appeared out of joint.

  Wren went to work, setting the hand and wrapping it.

  One Stone wandered down in their direction. He had a few others following, including Preemie, who trailed behind the others. The group of younger goblins were slapping each other’s backs. Preemie stared at Thistle for a moment but quickly looked away. Whatever exuberance the others were feeling wasn’t shared by him.

  The group paused near a body. One of the boys began kicking it as the others laughed. The goblin with the war paint watched impassively as Wren finished up with his hand.

  Thistle rose and advanced on the boys. None of them saw her approach until she was on them. She shoved the one who was doing the kicking aside. She punched another, a feeble blow. He backed up a step, laughing.

  “What’s wrong with you?” One Stone asked.

  “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you?” She pushed him and kept pushing him as he did nothing to resist her.

  Wren pulled her back. “Come on.” He led her out of sight of the body to a bench and had her sit with him. She threw his arm off when he tried to put it around her.

  “I’m sure you have work to do,” she said.

  He stared at her for a moment. “When’s the last time you ate?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I saw something when coming into the village which might change your mind. Come on.”

  Near the hog pens was a squat shed with a large stone chimney. She could smell the heady aroma of cooking and woodsmoke coming from the open door. A goblin emerged with a bundle of dried meat. He was shredding it with his fingernails and stuffing chunks into his mouth. Peering inside, Thistle saw hanging pig carcasses, sausages, and carved slabs of hindquarters and hams. A handful of goblins were helping themselves and more were coming to wait their turn.

  Wren carved a slice off a dangling haunch. “Not bad, right?”

  “You go ahead. I can’t right now.”

  She began to head back to the bench. Noe was approaching the shed with Ramus and Gelid and a dozen warriors.

  “We take the meat. Burn the rest,” she ordered. “Why is everyone standing around? Finish up and gather down by the road.”

  Thistle watched her close, expecting to see a sneer or some other sign that Thistle’s actions had been spread among the raid, but Noe took no notice of her as she marched past. The goblin officers spread out through the village. Their shouts rallied the goblins. In moments, the hunters and warriors were lighting brands from the village stoves and cookfires. These were set to the roofs of homes and the flames caught quickly. In their zeal, the goblins setting fire to the nearest huts applied their torches to the smokehouse before it could be emptied.

  Wren and a few of the other hunters shouted at them, but it was too late. The smokehouse was engulfed with flame. The sweet scent of burning meat permeated the air.

  The goblins backed away from the flames. Many began moving towards the far side of town where the road ran past. But Thistle broke away from the group to walk through the smoke. She spotted more bodies lying in the pathways that ran between the huts. She counted thirty-seven dead. Some had been slain within their homes, but most had been cut down as they had tried to flee.

  Ramus found her. “What are you doing? We’re done here. It’s time to leave.”

  “Did you encounter any soldiers? Any of their men?”

  “A few older ones. But none who could fight.”

  “So we faced women and children,” Thistle said. “It means their warriors are out there.”

  “We know this. Noe’s not stupid. That’s why we need to get out of this place.”

  She tried to peer inside a hut where a few bodies lay atop one another, but the heat was too great.

  “Thistle…”

  “I’m coming.”

  The pigs inside the nearest pen were shrieking. The sound gave her shivers. She paused to unhitch the gate and released the animals, which charged past her and disappeared into the smoke.

  By the time they joined the rest of the raid, they were the last ones.

  Noe shot both Thistle and Ramus an accusing look. “Why the delay?”

  “I was tallying the dead,” Thistle said.

  “Is that a necessary detail for your account?”

  “I saw many mothers, old men, and children, but no fathers.”

  “They’re away. We’ve missed them. Now if your tour is finished, we need to set out. Th
e smoke will draw attention.”

  Thistle forced herself to meet Noe’s gaze. “You didn’t know their men weren’t there. We just attacked.”

  “The outcome would have been the same. Gelid, your warriors are on point. We head south.”

  Gelid snapped his fingers and got his goblins moving. He then leaned his own massive spear on a shoulder and marched off. The rest began to fall in.

  “Do you have something else to say to me?” Noe asked as Thistle lingered.

  Thistle shook her head.

  Noe slung her pack over a shoulder. “I’ve underestimated you. One Stone tells me you shed human blood today. It’s different than scratching notes into a book.”

  “I did what I had to do.”

  “That’s what we’re doing, isn’t it? What we have to do. Remember that. And the feeling in your guts which is both accusing and excusing you—use it. It will make you stronger.”

  Thistle watched her and the procession of warriors leave. The few who led the horses brought up the rear. Wren was with them, and he marched next to her and didn’t bother her with any questions.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Three more villages in as many days. These nameless communities fell to us with little opposition. We spill the blood of human women, children, and the elderly. The only adult male we found was deathly sick.

  Not all fall to our arrows and spears. Quite a few escape, but I don’t know if this is part of our leader’s strategy. She again refuses to talk to me.

  We’ve seen several families with bundles of food and other provisions as if preparing to flee. The last community had half of its homes abandoned. Word has gotten out and precedes us, perhaps by only a few hours, but we can assume that our arrival will be anticipated.

  That evening as they set camp, it snowed.

  The raid found a good stream along which they bedded down for the night. A few of the hunters made fires and soon they were cooking from their supplies of rice. Noe and her lead hunters weren’t around, but no one objected. The fires were small and no meat was being roasted.

  Thistle’s own hunger asserted itself. She had a few morels in her pouch, little more than a snack. Wren had shared from his own supplies, but they were almost exhausted. She would have to forage before it grew dark. But she also wanted to use the last of the light to complete her notes of the day’s events.

  Wren was busy nearby with a hunter who had broken his leg, but not because of any combat. One of the horses had spooked and stepped on the goblin.

  She didn’t have much to write. Even still, the dwindling space on the last few pages meant she needed to choose her words carefully. What to leave out and what to put in? What justification should she add so the reader would understand the why of the raid’s actions? The villages and unidentified dead humans would surely pass from memory if she said nothing about them.

  She had faces in mind, some of which she feared she would never forget.

  The pencil went back between the pages as she closed the notebook. She brushed her fingers clean of carbon smudges. She tried to imagine what Somni might advise, but she wasn’t thinking clearly. She could hunt for forage tomorrow. Sleep would be easier and her blanket awaited.

  Ramus placed a bowl of cooked rice next to her. “I have no extra spoon, so you’ll have to make do.”

  She grabbed the dish. The heady aroma of the rice made her swoon. But before she ate, she asked, “I thought I wasn’t to receive any of the rations. I’m not one of the warriors.”

  “You stood up to an armed human at the first village. You’ve proven yourself.”

  “It was almost an accident.”

  “If you don’t want the rice, I’m sure there are plenty who would eat a second helping.”

  She began to scoop up fingerfuls of the bowl’s contents. The rice was delicious and hot and all too quickly gone. Ramus watched her eat. Then he offered her his own bowl.

  She took it without thinking. “You need to eat too.”

  “Stomach’s bitter today. Go on, daughter.”

  “What will Noe say? We shouldn’t have made fire. The smell of smoke will carry.”

  “I believe it’s worth the risk for the hot meal. It will do our spirits good.”

  Thistle had her doubts but she ate the second bowl without further prompting. Ramus wore an expression she could only interpret as affectionate.

  “I thought you wanted me to leave,” she said.

  “You’re also the daughter of a fellow hunter. Carus and I were never friends. Your father was much like you. An idealist. He believed in Sage Somni where many of us didn’t. I still see little point in wasting your energy with words set to paper. Our library is burned, and all I can think is how many wasted hours were spent making it that could have been served in training and preparing for our defense.”

  “There’s no way we could have anticipated such an attack. But what if the humans leave us alone for another year? Or a decade? What if two generations from now there’s once again some kind of peace between us? Without a record of what happened, will we once again be surprised at what they can do?”

  “That’s why we do this raid. So the humans will never again attack us.”

  She ate the last few stray grains of rice from the bowls. “I hope you’re right. I hope that’s what we can accomplish.”

  “But you don’t believe it.”

  “I’ve said what I can on the matter.”

  He rose and collected the empty bowls. Wren was limping towards them with his own serving of rice in a large folded leaf.

  Ramus sighed. “As to whether I think you should be here, I still believe you should return. Take some supplies and go back to Mire Linda and then Boarhead. You have enough recorded to let the other villages know what we’ve done.”

  “What do you think is going to happen?”

  “It doesn’t matter. My Zina said my instincts were about as worthless as counting falling acorns to know that the winter will be a long one. But I also see that you’re an adult. You must make your own decisions.”

  Ramus left Thistle and headed back to one of the campfires.

  Wren paused to watch the senior hunter leave. “What was that all about?”

  “He’s worried your limp is slowing everyone down.”

  When Wren visibly bristled, she failed to hold back a smile.

  “He also said you eat more than your share of the rations and it’s your smell that scares the horses.”

  “He did not. What’s got you in such a good mood?”

  She shrugged. “I wouldn’t call it a good mood. He still wants me to go back to Boarhead. But it’s nice to hear someone who thinks I’m worth having around.”

  Wren chuckled. “Maybe you can share some of those happy thoughts with that hunter whose leg I just set. He accused me of being spawned by a pig and threatened to cut me if I ever came close to him again.”

  “Another successful procedure, then.”

  “Close enough. He’ll walk in a few weeks, if he lets the bone heal. But it’s a bad break.”

  “So what do we do with him?”

  “Carry him or leave him behind. It’ll be Noe’s call.”

  Wren ate his rice and licked the leaf clean. He then shared a few dried berries.

  “What if Ramus is right?” he asked. “You have the opportunity to go home. No one else will abandon the raid for fear of losing face. I can recommend you be the one who takes one of the horses and the injured hunter with you.”

  “I’ll refuse. I belong here as much as you do.”

  “And here I thought you were one of the smart ones.”

  Noe and several of the scouts returned to the camp. Moments later, the fires were doused or extinguished with dirt. Noe was whispering harsh words with Ramus, leaning in as she spoke. He was nodding even as the other warriors who were around them passed the word:

  “No more fires. There are humans nearby.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  They kept a double watch tha
t night, with pairs of hunters placed at every hundred paces.

  Although Thistle was free to sleep, she woke frequently, every time anyone moved about. The ground was colder than any she had ever slept on. She wished for heavier clothes as she shivered.

  A hard rustling at an undetermined hour jolted her fully awake. The nearest sentry wasn’t moving and the sound came from beyond him. Someone was running over dried leaves just outside of camp. One of the guards let out a bird call. The hoot was loud enough that the entire camp must have heard. A few goblins raced past where she was bedded down. But no one cried out in alarm and she was too afraid to make any sound of her own as she strained her ears. Some thirty minutes later the sentries returned and settled in again.

  Thistle remained awake until dawn.

  Come the morning, the warriors at Ramus’s circle of slumbering goblins were up and studying the ground around them, their weapons at the ready. A series of hissed warnings went from goblin to goblin, rousing any who weren’t yet awake.

  “Humans were here,” a hunter whispered as he moved past Thistle and Wren.

  Thistle wrapped the blanket around her shoulders and rose, moving towards the nearby cluster of goblins. There in the soft dirt between two of the campfires was a fresh footprint. It was the track of a human who hadn’t been wearing any shoes. All the goblins in the raid had some form of footwear, be it moccasin, sandal, or soft-soled boot.

  “How many were there?” she asked.

  A warrior from Gelid’s band answered. “At least two. They came after the moon set.”

  Arens nodded. “We didn’t smell them or hear them until one of them tried to take one of the horses. Then they fled.”

  Thistle searched the ground for anything besides the one obvious footprint. “The human soldiers didn’t go around barefoot.”

  “Maybe it’s their hunters,” Arens said. “The cowards. Wouldn’t fight us to save their families. Snuck into our camp just to steal a horse.”

  Noe approached and made her own inspection of the footprint and found a few more. “Collect your gear. We break camp now.”