Arthur Daigle's Blog - Posts Tagged "gangs"
new goblin stories 12
Boss Jesseck watched the street for signs of ambush or traps, certain that the letter he’d received with teddy bears on it was an invitation to disaster. In any city but Cronsword that would be a sign of paranoia or just being silly, but this slovenly metropolis was run by thieves. You couldn’t trust your own mother in a place like this. Fortunately that wasn’t an issue for Boss Jesseck since he he’d been born when a giant mushroom opened and dropped him out, and thus didn’t have a mother (although he’d heard good things about them).
Minutes dragged on into a full hour with no sign of threat. It was a warm, sunny day, and the cobblestone streets were choked with merchants, laborers, artisans and tradesmen. There was also a smattering of tourists, better known to the residents of Cronsword as victims. But try as he might, Boss Jesseck couldn’t find assassins laying in wait or mercenaries on the hunt. It was actually kind of disappointing to learn that this wasn’t a trap, because that meant he’d have to actually attend this stupid meeting.
“You sure about this, boss?” a lanky goblin asked. Boss Jesseck and fifty of his most trusted goblins crouched in an alley a block from their destination.
“No,” Boss Jesseck admitted. He checked the invitation again and frowned. “But the other gang bosses are going to attend, and that means I have to be here to make sure they don’t plot against us. Stay here, and if you see anything dicey, come in after me.”
Boss Jesseck took a deep breath and left the alley. He was four feet tall, big for a goblin, and had green skin and black hair. His clothes were a mishmash of merchant and sailor attire, including a captain’s hat, blue pants, pinstriped coat and leather shoes. His appearance drew attention from the packed streets, for goblins, even influential ones like him, were seldom seen in the light of day.
This was dangerous. Cronsword was a city divided, each street claimed by a gang who ruled it, taxed it and ran the rackets. The gangs defended their territories jealously from all comes, and it was common for a street to be taken over by rival gangs. Boss Jesseck and his goblins controlled Cheese Street, which provided them a regular ration of cheese. Leaving his haven to come here meant entering a rival gang’s territory and risking capture or assassination.
A well-dressed merchant frowned when Boss Jesseck neared. “Why don’t you goblin filth stayed off the streets?”
That earned him a kick to the shin. The man jumped up and down, yelping the whole time before he recovered and drew a dagger. Boss Jesseck drew out a club from inside his coat and held his ground.
“It’s been awhile since I sent a tall one like you to the healers. Put that toothpick away or you’ll leave on a stretcher.”
“You dare!” The man waved to others in the crowd. “Come on, let’s show this runt that we don’t take guff from his kind!” No one moved to help him. “What’s wrong with you people? Are you going to let a goblin strike a man?”
“Seems to me you started this, and you can finish it on your own,” a shopkeeper replied. “Speaking of which, watch your right side.”
Astonished, the man could only say, “What?”
Wham! Boss Jesseck struck the man’s right foot. The man howled as Boss Jesseck followed up with a blow to the knee and then to the stomach. The well-dressed man fell to the ground in agony, and Boss Jesseck moved on without another word.
“He tends to go for the right foot first,” the shopkeeper told the well-dressed man.
“Let’s get his wallet!” another man shouted, and the crowd descended on the merchant. He cried out in surprise as the men who’d walked beside him moments ago turned on him.
“I want his boots!” yelled a third man.
Boss Jesseck rolled his eyes as he walked off. “Only in Cronsword.”
Boss Jesseck reached his destination, a towering building in the center of Bankers Row. Most streets in Cronsword offered a single trade or business so customers could better find them. Bankers Row was named after the moneylenders who kept Cronsword running with their loans. The buildings here were built to impress with soaring towers, decorative columns and pretty trees, but they were also as heavily defended as castles. The walls were thick, the foundations deep, the windows were narrow and the guards brutish and armed to the teeth.
One guard nodded to Jesseck and opened the door to the largest bank. “You’re expected, sir.”
That caught Boss Jesseck by surprise. “A man calls a goblin sir? That’s a first.”
“Boss Hatchwich’s orders were to show due respect to all the bosses coming for today’s conference,” the guard said. “And after what your goblins did to the Fallen King last year, respect is owed in spades.”
Boss Jesseck entered the bank to find the interior set for the event. The spacious main room included a large rectangular table and chairs, including one that had a short set of wooden stairs. That was a thoughtful gesture given Boss Jesseck was so short he had trouble using large furniture built by humans. The table was set with plates, glasses, decanters of wine and generous helpings of of food.
Two gang leaders were already seated. The first was Boss Crassok. The one-eyed gang boss wore a patch over his ruined eye and favored red clothes. Boss Minter was a slender man decked out in fine silks. This left only seven seats left once Boss Jesseck sat at the table.
“Jesseck,” Crassok said. “I wasn’t sure if you were invited, or if you would come.”
“You’re showing a lot of backbone these days, goblin,” Minter added.
Boss Jesseck grabbed all the cheese off the table and piled it on his plate, including two pieces off Crassok’s plate. “I’m here for the same reason you are, Minter. We drove off the Fallen King, but a lot of gangs went under during that fight. Cronsword’s been unsettled ever since. Some streets are unclaimed by any gang and others change hands every month. That’s not good for business.”
“And then there’s our host,” Crassok said dryly.
The fight against the Fallen King’s men had been brutal. Boss Jesseck ruled every goblin in Cronsword, and had led them in defense of the city. They’d done well, but other gangs had been defeated. The battle could have easily been lost except a mad scientist named Umber Hatchwich had marched his monstrous clockwork man Forewarned into the Fallen King’s forces. Hatchwich had saved the day, and in the aftermath of the fighting had gained so much respect that men had flocked to him. He’d taken prosperous streets for his territory and held them against all comers. Today he was a gang boss equal to any in the city, and maybe greater.
“Gentlemen!” Boss Hatchwich entered the bank flanked by two heavily armed men. Umber Hatchwich had been the deciding factor in defeating the Fallen King’s attack, pretty ironic since the man had intended on conquering the city with his clockwork. These days Hatchwich wore black and yellow clothes of fine silk, his white hair trimmed short, and he had a brass gauntlet on his left hand. There was no telling what it could do, but Boss Jesseck was willing to bet that the gang boss/mad scientist had weapons built into it.
“Hatchwich,” Boss Jesseck mumbled. It was hard to talk with so much cheese in his mouth. “Not sure what you’re planning by calling this meeting. There’s never been one like it in Cronsword, and it’s got people scared. You mind filling us in on what this is about?”
“Of course, but there’s no sense in repeating myself. I’ll gladly explain my intentions once the others arrive. Speaking of which, I believe I see a few of our fellow bosses on their way. Allow me to greet them, and help yourself to…ah. I’ll have the servants bring more cheese.”
“Put it next to the goblin,” Boss Minter said. “He’ll get it all, anyway, and bite the hand of anyone else reaching for it.”
Hatchwich left the bank, leaving his two bodyguards behind. They were dangerous looking men even before Hatchwich had armed them. One had a gauntlet that included a saw blade, while the second had a brass sword with steel teeth. Boss Jesseck stared at them for a moment before he recognized them.
“You two used to work for Boss Usema.”
“Yeah, before we kicked him out for being an idiot,” the one with the sword said. He sounded excited as he explained, “We got lucky when Hatchwich said he’d be our boss. We thought he’d keep all those crazy inventions to himself, but then he went and gave us some!”
“Pretty trusting of him when you could run off with it,” Boss Minter said.
The man with the gauntlet turned it to show a brass cap on the edge. “These things need fuel to work, and only Boss Hatchwich knows how to make it. They’d be useless in a week if stole them.”
“Why would we want to leave?” the man with the sword asked. He sounded confused and a bit hurt by the suggestion. “Boss Hatchwich has been good to us. It’s not just the weapons. He hired a pretty lady to teach us how to write. Look at this!”
Proud as could be, the man took a scrap of paper from his pocket and showed it to the gang bosses. It read, ‘I am Eric.’ in large and not very neat letters. “Teacher says I’m reading at a third grade level. Used to be that nobody on my whole block could read, but now I can, and teacher says I’ll get even better at it!”
“Hatchwich is teaching his men to read?” Boss Crassok asked. He sounded awed. Most people in Cronsword were illiterate, and chances were Crassok couldn’t read, either.
“All of us,” the man said proudly. “Not everybody learns fast, but we’re trying. He said that if we do real good on our lessons then he’ll take us as apprentices. A year ago all I could think about was my next trip to the bars, and now I’m making something of myself.”
Boss Hatchwich returned with the remaining gang bosses. They were a deadly bunch of men and one elf, each one representing hundreds of experienced fighters. They eyed one another warily as they took their seats. There was always a chance they’d turn on a rival, making this meeting dangerous even if Boss Hatchwich was willing to play nice. Illustrating that point, one made the mistake of reaching for the cheese piled on Boss Jesseck’s plate. A low growl from the goblin made him rethink the move.
Never before had all the gang leaders of Cronsword met like this. Together they commanded thousands of armed and battle hardened men. Their personal fortunes were staggering, and their territories were worth millions of guilders. Impressive as the sight would have been, there was an inescapable truth that made them grim.
“Ten bosses sit at this table,” Boss Hatchwich said as he sat down. “The gang bosses numbered twenty before the Fallen King’s invasion. Fourteen gangs fell that day, and while four have been replaced, it is still a sorry state of affairs. There was an uneasy peace when twenty ruled, if only because none dared openly attack the others for fear he’d be attacked in turn.” Pointing his gauntleted hand at the bosses, Hatchwich asked, “Where does that leave us? Fighting each other. Constantly.”
“It’s a temporary situation,” Boss Minter said. “More men come to Cronsword every day. Our ranks are refilling with refugees who fled the Fallen King. Everyone here will be back to full strength by year’s end.”
“To what end?” Boss Hatchwich asked. “I took control of a leaderless gang after the fighting was over, and talking with my men revealed a terrible truth. The conflicts between the gangs have been going on for generations. In that time this city hasn’t grown or improved, while rival cities have. Worse yet, this fighting could destroy us again. We risk being conquered by the next enemy to come to our gates, not because we are weak, but because we are divided.”
“I see where this is headed,” Boss Jesseck said. He fished through his coat until he found a long handled match. Taking it out, he placed the wood tip in the corner of his mouth. “You want one gang ruling this city, but instead of defeating the other gangs, you want us to sign up with you.”
“Close, but no.” Boss Hatchwich handed out maps of the city that showed which gangs ran which streets. “I believe we’re best served by forming a council of equals. Together we can run Cronsword without the threat of violence we’ve lived under for so long. We can also improve the city and extend our reach beyond its borders to include neighboring communities.”
Boss Jesseck chuckled. “I wonder how equal I’ll be in this council of equals compared to the others here, or to you. I got to think a man with brass monsters and clockwork weapons is going to have more of a say than a goblin.”
“Yeah, what happens if we have plans you don’t like?” Boss Minter asked. “Are we supposed to believe that if this new council votes against you that you’re going to take it?”
Boss Hatchwich smiled. “Except you’re not going to do that, because my plan makes you wealthy beyond your imagination, and without the risks you’ve been taking for years. We’re squabbling over scraps when we could be feasting.”
“Speaking of feasting, somebody mind passing the food?” the elf gang boss asked.
“Sure, but don’t expect any cheese,” Boss Minter said.
“It’s what you get for showing up late,” Boss Jesseck snapped. “And I’m not sold on this idea by a long shot.”
“Pass the steaks,” Boss Minter asked.
Boss Jesseck grumbled but passed over a platter of hot beefsteaks. “You talk about us reaching out and taking more territory. I don’t want more than I’ve got, and for good reasons. If we try to conquer territory outside Cronsword then we’ll be fighting whoever rules that land. It’s the same dance, just changing partners, nothing more.”
“He’s got a point,” Boss Crassok. “Where did that roast chicken go?”
“It’s by Minter,” Boss Jesseck said. “If we go on the warpath we risk drawing attention from kings who don’t want us expanding near them. My boys are good, and I’ve got even more of them than I did last year, but I don’t want them fighting another war. It’s risky and the rewards are slim.”
Hatchwich wasn’t giving up. “The closest territory we could expand into was hit hard by the Fallen King’s army before it reached us. The few people still living there could offer little opposition. Once we annex it, it would be child’s play to repair the economy and let the money pour in. Jesseck, pass the bowl of cherries.”
“Your arms are longer than mine! Get it yourself!”
Boss Minter took a sip of wine and frowned. “You’ve got guts, Hatchwich, and you learned quick how to rule a gang. Credit’s due there. But you’re asking a lot from us, and I have a feeling you’re going to ask for more. Taking land means forming an army, and we’d have to contribute men to it. But an army has to have one leader to be effective. Someone, and I think you’re nominating yourself, would have to lead that army. That makes you boss of our men. I don’t like that.”
Boss Jesseck pointed a half eaten slab of cheese at Boss Hatchwich. “Working that land would take men. Where are they coming from? Sure, we’re got refugees coming by the boatload, but we’d need thousands of men to do the job.”
The elf gang boss cleared his throat. “If the goblin can find flaws in your plan, then it’s a bad plan.”
“I’m not picking fights, long ears,” Boss Jesseck growled. “Not asking too much for you to show the same courtesy.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Boss Hatchwich said. “My dear mother once told me that men working together can do anything they put their minds to. We can work out a fair distribution of leadership positions, responsibilities and rewards. Fallow land doesn’t say empty for long. If we don’t take it then someone else will, making them a potential threat on our border.”
Standing up, Boss Hatchwich took off his brass gauntlet and set it on the table. “I see that a sign of good faith is needed. I am willing to—”
“Did anyone see what happened to the meat pie?” Crassok asked.
“Minter had it last I saw,” Boss Jesseck told him. “Heaven above, how can a man that thin eat so much?”
“I’ve got a fast metabolism!” Boss Minter shouted back.
“I was saying,” Boss Hatchwich said in an annoyed tone, “that I am willing to provide you with proof of my good intentions. Taking and holding land would be difficult without proper arms. That is no longer a concern.”
Without further adieu, Boss Hatchwich handed the gauntlet to Boss Crassok. “I have been busy these last few months making clockwork men, but also a fair number of clockwork weapons. Each of you will receive an equal share of these weapons, including ones built to a goblin’s proportions. I believe you’ll find them most impressive.”
“You’re sharing your weapons with us?” Boss Crassok asked in amazement.
“You sharing how to make the fuel to power them?” Boss Jesseck asked skeptically.
“Boss!” Every head turned to see a goblin run into the meeting. Armed guards with Boss Hatchwich’s clockwork weapons were chasing him, but the little goblin ran under the table and came up next to his boss.
“My invitation was for gang bosses and no one else,” Hatchwich said.
“I’ll handle my own boys,” Boss Jesseck told him. He turned to the goblin and asked, “What’s this about?”
The goblin handed him a sheet of paper covered in writing. Whoever had made this had used blue ink, unusual to say the least, and the writing was flowery. “These papers showed up all over the city, and the countryside and even towns miles from here. I can’t read much, but I recognize the words Cronsword and danger, so I brought you a copy.”
Boss Jesseck waved for Boss Hatchwich’s guard with the toothed sword. “You, Eric, make yourself useful and read this out loud.”
The guard preened like a peacock at the chance to show off his new skill. The gang bosses looked on expectantly as Eric began, “No Secrets: Your leaders are keeping the truth from you! The mad scientist Umber Hatchwich has seized control of a gang in the city of Cronsword. He is forging the other gangs into an army with his devilish clockwork monsters.”
“There is nothing wrong with my clockwork, and certainly nothing devilish!” Boss Hatchwick yelled. He reluctantly conceded, “Maybe their good looks.”
Eric continued reading. “The fiend seeks to conquer lands near the fetid, thief infested city of Cronsword. With his horrid clockworks that pretend to be men and foul criminals, he is a danger to all right thinking peoples. Indeed, he will be satisfied with nothing less than world domination!”
“World domination?” Boss Jesseck asked. “You want to take over the world?”
Boss Hatchwich blushed. “Well, I don’t like to boast.”
“How much did you pay to have these ads written up?” Boss Minter asked.
“I didn’t ask anyone to do this.” Boss Hatchwich took the paper from his guard and studied it.
Boss Jesseck rolled his eyes. “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you? Whoever did this is going to show up after the fact and try to charge you for it.”
“Definitely,” the elf gang boss agreed.
Boss Crassok leaned back in his chair. “Don’t you hate when that happens?”
Boss Hatchwich looked stunned. “No one knew what I was planning to discuss for this meeting except me. How did any learn of my plans? Who would spread warning of my intentions? How far has this news traveled?”
“You’ve got problems, Hatchwich,” Boss Jesseck said.
Two armed guards entered the bank and saluted Boss Hatchwich. “Sir, there’s a problem outside. A man…what we think is a man, is asking to see you.”
That news was odd enough to bring all the gang bosses to the door. They found a crowd outside gathered around a single figure. He, if it was a man, wore glossy black plate armor festooned with spikes and sharp angles. He carried a pair of short swords that ended in wicked barbs. Dark vapors drifted from his mouth.
“Umber Hatchwich, I am Casteel of the Encroaching Darkness,” the strange figure said in an echoing voice. He held up a paper identical to the one Boss Jesseck’s goblin had brought into the meeting. “News of your deeds, both completed and planned, has reached me. You seek to place all of Other Place under your grip.”
Suddenly sounding bashful, the nightmarish figure said, “So, um, I was wondering if you were hiring. I brought a resume.”
Minutes dragged on into a full hour with no sign of threat. It was a warm, sunny day, and the cobblestone streets were choked with merchants, laborers, artisans and tradesmen. There was also a smattering of tourists, better known to the residents of Cronsword as victims. But try as he might, Boss Jesseck couldn’t find assassins laying in wait or mercenaries on the hunt. It was actually kind of disappointing to learn that this wasn’t a trap, because that meant he’d have to actually attend this stupid meeting.
“You sure about this, boss?” a lanky goblin asked. Boss Jesseck and fifty of his most trusted goblins crouched in an alley a block from their destination.
“No,” Boss Jesseck admitted. He checked the invitation again and frowned. “But the other gang bosses are going to attend, and that means I have to be here to make sure they don’t plot against us. Stay here, and if you see anything dicey, come in after me.”
Boss Jesseck took a deep breath and left the alley. He was four feet tall, big for a goblin, and had green skin and black hair. His clothes were a mishmash of merchant and sailor attire, including a captain’s hat, blue pants, pinstriped coat and leather shoes. His appearance drew attention from the packed streets, for goblins, even influential ones like him, were seldom seen in the light of day.
This was dangerous. Cronsword was a city divided, each street claimed by a gang who ruled it, taxed it and ran the rackets. The gangs defended their territories jealously from all comes, and it was common for a street to be taken over by rival gangs. Boss Jesseck and his goblins controlled Cheese Street, which provided them a regular ration of cheese. Leaving his haven to come here meant entering a rival gang’s territory and risking capture or assassination.
A well-dressed merchant frowned when Boss Jesseck neared. “Why don’t you goblin filth stayed off the streets?”
That earned him a kick to the shin. The man jumped up and down, yelping the whole time before he recovered and drew a dagger. Boss Jesseck drew out a club from inside his coat and held his ground.
“It’s been awhile since I sent a tall one like you to the healers. Put that toothpick away or you’ll leave on a stretcher.”
“You dare!” The man waved to others in the crowd. “Come on, let’s show this runt that we don’t take guff from his kind!” No one moved to help him. “What’s wrong with you people? Are you going to let a goblin strike a man?”
“Seems to me you started this, and you can finish it on your own,” a shopkeeper replied. “Speaking of which, watch your right side.”
Astonished, the man could only say, “What?”
Wham! Boss Jesseck struck the man’s right foot. The man howled as Boss Jesseck followed up with a blow to the knee and then to the stomach. The well-dressed man fell to the ground in agony, and Boss Jesseck moved on without another word.
“He tends to go for the right foot first,” the shopkeeper told the well-dressed man.
“Let’s get his wallet!” another man shouted, and the crowd descended on the merchant. He cried out in surprise as the men who’d walked beside him moments ago turned on him.
“I want his boots!” yelled a third man.
Boss Jesseck rolled his eyes as he walked off. “Only in Cronsword.”
Boss Jesseck reached his destination, a towering building in the center of Bankers Row. Most streets in Cronsword offered a single trade or business so customers could better find them. Bankers Row was named after the moneylenders who kept Cronsword running with their loans. The buildings here were built to impress with soaring towers, decorative columns and pretty trees, but they were also as heavily defended as castles. The walls were thick, the foundations deep, the windows were narrow and the guards brutish and armed to the teeth.
One guard nodded to Jesseck and opened the door to the largest bank. “You’re expected, sir.”
That caught Boss Jesseck by surprise. “A man calls a goblin sir? That’s a first.”
“Boss Hatchwich’s orders were to show due respect to all the bosses coming for today’s conference,” the guard said. “And after what your goblins did to the Fallen King last year, respect is owed in spades.”
Boss Jesseck entered the bank to find the interior set for the event. The spacious main room included a large rectangular table and chairs, including one that had a short set of wooden stairs. That was a thoughtful gesture given Boss Jesseck was so short he had trouble using large furniture built by humans. The table was set with plates, glasses, decanters of wine and generous helpings of of food.
Two gang leaders were already seated. The first was Boss Crassok. The one-eyed gang boss wore a patch over his ruined eye and favored red clothes. Boss Minter was a slender man decked out in fine silks. This left only seven seats left once Boss Jesseck sat at the table.
“Jesseck,” Crassok said. “I wasn’t sure if you were invited, or if you would come.”
“You’re showing a lot of backbone these days, goblin,” Minter added.
Boss Jesseck grabbed all the cheese off the table and piled it on his plate, including two pieces off Crassok’s plate. “I’m here for the same reason you are, Minter. We drove off the Fallen King, but a lot of gangs went under during that fight. Cronsword’s been unsettled ever since. Some streets are unclaimed by any gang and others change hands every month. That’s not good for business.”
“And then there’s our host,” Crassok said dryly.
The fight against the Fallen King’s men had been brutal. Boss Jesseck ruled every goblin in Cronsword, and had led them in defense of the city. They’d done well, but other gangs had been defeated. The battle could have easily been lost except a mad scientist named Umber Hatchwich had marched his monstrous clockwork man Forewarned into the Fallen King’s forces. Hatchwich had saved the day, and in the aftermath of the fighting had gained so much respect that men had flocked to him. He’d taken prosperous streets for his territory and held them against all comers. Today he was a gang boss equal to any in the city, and maybe greater.
“Gentlemen!” Boss Hatchwich entered the bank flanked by two heavily armed men. Umber Hatchwich had been the deciding factor in defeating the Fallen King’s attack, pretty ironic since the man had intended on conquering the city with his clockwork. These days Hatchwich wore black and yellow clothes of fine silk, his white hair trimmed short, and he had a brass gauntlet on his left hand. There was no telling what it could do, but Boss Jesseck was willing to bet that the gang boss/mad scientist had weapons built into it.
“Hatchwich,” Boss Jesseck mumbled. It was hard to talk with so much cheese in his mouth. “Not sure what you’re planning by calling this meeting. There’s never been one like it in Cronsword, and it’s got people scared. You mind filling us in on what this is about?”
“Of course, but there’s no sense in repeating myself. I’ll gladly explain my intentions once the others arrive. Speaking of which, I believe I see a few of our fellow bosses on their way. Allow me to greet them, and help yourself to…ah. I’ll have the servants bring more cheese.”
“Put it next to the goblin,” Boss Minter said. “He’ll get it all, anyway, and bite the hand of anyone else reaching for it.”
Hatchwich left the bank, leaving his two bodyguards behind. They were dangerous looking men even before Hatchwich had armed them. One had a gauntlet that included a saw blade, while the second had a brass sword with steel teeth. Boss Jesseck stared at them for a moment before he recognized them.
“You two used to work for Boss Usema.”
“Yeah, before we kicked him out for being an idiot,” the one with the sword said. He sounded excited as he explained, “We got lucky when Hatchwich said he’d be our boss. We thought he’d keep all those crazy inventions to himself, but then he went and gave us some!”
“Pretty trusting of him when you could run off with it,” Boss Minter said.
The man with the gauntlet turned it to show a brass cap on the edge. “These things need fuel to work, and only Boss Hatchwich knows how to make it. They’d be useless in a week if stole them.”
“Why would we want to leave?” the man with the sword asked. He sounded confused and a bit hurt by the suggestion. “Boss Hatchwich has been good to us. It’s not just the weapons. He hired a pretty lady to teach us how to write. Look at this!”
Proud as could be, the man took a scrap of paper from his pocket and showed it to the gang bosses. It read, ‘I am Eric.’ in large and not very neat letters. “Teacher says I’m reading at a third grade level. Used to be that nobody on my whole block could read, but now I can, and teacher says I’ll get even better at it!”
“Hatchwich is teaching his men to read?” Boss Crassok asked. He sounded awed. Most people in Cronsword were illiterate, and chances were Crassok couldn’t read, either.
“All of us,” the man said proudly. “Not everybody learns fast, but we’re trying. He said that if we do real good on our lessons then he’ll take us as apprentices. A year ago all I could think about was my next trip to the bars, and now I’m making something of myself.”
Boss Hatchwich returned with the remaining gang bosses. They were a deadly bunch of men and one elf, each one representing hundreds of experienced fighters. They eyed one another warily as they took their seats. There was always a chance they’d turn on a rival, making this meeting dangerous even if Boss Hatchwich was willing to play nice. Illustrating that point, one made the mistake of reaching for the cheese piled on Boss Jesseck’s plate. A low growl from the goblin made him rethink the move.
Never before had all the gang leaders of Cronsword met like this. Together they commanded thousands of armed and battle hardened men. Their personal fortunes were staggering, and their territories were worth millions of guilders. Impressive as the sight would have been, there was an inescapable truth that made them grim.
“Ten bosses sit at this table,” Boss Hatchwich said as he sat down. “The gang bosses numbered twenty before the Fallen King’s invasion. Fourteen gangs fell that day, and while four have been replaced, it is still a sorry state of affairs. There was an uneasy peace when twenty ruled, if only because none dared openly attack the others for fear he’d be attacked in turn.” Pointing his gauntleted hand at the bosses, Hatchwich asked, “Where does that leave us? Fighting each other. Constantly.”
“It’s a temporary situation,” Boss Minter said. “More men come to Cronsword every day. Our ranks are refilling with refugees who fled the Fallen King. Everyone here will be back to full strength by year’s end.”
“To what end?” Boss Hatchwich asked. “I took control of a leaderless gang after the fighting was over, and talking with my men revealed a terrible truth. The conflicts between the gangs have been going on for generations. In that time this city hasn’t grown or improved, while rival cities have. Worse yet, this fighting could destroy us again. We risk being conquered by the next enemy to come to our gates, not because we are weak, but because we are divided.”
“I see where this is headed,” Boss Jesseck said. He fished through his coat until he found a long handled match. Taking it out, he placed the wood tip in the corner of his mouth. “You want one gang ruling this city, but instead of defeating the other gangs, you want us to sign up with you.”
“Close, but no.” Boss Hatchwich handed out maps of the city that showed which gangs ran which streets. “I believe we’re best served by forming a council of equals. Together we can run Cronsword without the threat of violence we’ve lived under for so long. We can also improve the city and extend our reach beyond its borders to include neighboring communities.”
Boss Jesseck chuckled. “I wonder how equal I’ll be in this council of equals compared to the others here, or to you. I got to think a man with brass monsters and clockwork weapons is going to have more of a say than a goblin.”
“Yeah, what happens if we have plans you don’t like?” Boss Minter asked. “Are we supposed to believe that if this new council votes against you that you’re going to take it?”
Boss Hatchwich smiled. “Except you’re not going to do that, because my plan makes you wealthy beyond your imagination, and without the risks you’ve been taking for years. We’re squabbling over scraps when we could be feasting.”
“Speaking of feasting, somebody mind passing the food?” the elf gang boss asked.
“Sure, but don’t expect any cheese,” Boss Minter said.
“It’s what you get for showing up late,” Boss Jesseck snapped. “And I’m not sold on this idea by a long shot.”
“Pass the steaks,” Boss Minter asked.
Boss Jesseck grumbled but passed over a platter of hot beefsteaks. “You talk about us reaching out and taking more territory. I don’t want more than I’ve got, and for good reasons. If we try to conquer territory outside Cronsword then we’ll be fighting whoever rules that land. It’s the same dance, just changing partners, nothing more.”
“He’s got a point,” Boss Crassok. “Where did that roast chicken go?”
“It’s by Minter,” Boss Jesseck said. “If we go on the warpath we risk drawing attention from kings who don’t want us expanding near them. My boys are good, and I’ve got even more of them than I did last year, but I don’t want them fighting another war. It’s risky and the rewards are slim.”
Hatchwich wasn’t giving up. “The closest territory we could expand into was hit hard by the Fallen King’s army before it reached us. The few people still living there could offer little opposition. Once we annex it, it would be child’s play to repair the economy and let the money pour in. Jesseck, pass the bowl of cherries.”
“Your arms are longer than mine! Get it yourself!”
Boss Minter took a sip of wine and frowned. “You’ve got guts, Hatchwich, and you learned quick how to rule a gang. Credit’s due there. But you’re asking a lot from us, and I have a feeling you’re going to ask for more. Taking land means forming an army, and we’d have to contribute men to it. But an army has to have one leader to be effective. Someone, and I think you’re nominating yourself, would have to lead that army. That makes you boss of our men. I don’t like that.”
Boss Jesseck pointed a half eaten slab of cheese at Boss Hatchwich. “Working that land would take men. Where are they coming from? Sure, we’re got refugees coming by the boatload, but we’d need thousands of men to do the job.”
The elf gang boss cleared his throat. “If the goblin can find flaws in your plan, then it’s a bad plan.”
“I’m not picking fights, long ears,” Boss Jesseck growled. “Not asking too much for you to show the same courtesy.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Boss Hatchwich said. “My dear mother once told me that men working together can do anything they put their minds to. We can work out a fair distribution of leadership positions, responsibilities and rewards. Fallow land doesn’t say empty for long. If we don’t take it then someone else will, making them a potential threat on our border.”
Standing up, Boss Hatchwich took off his brass gauntlet and set it on the table. “I see that a sign of good faith is needed. I am willing to—”
“Did anyone see what happened to the meat pie?” Crassok asked.
“Minter had it last I saw,” Boss Jesseck told him. “Heaven above, how can a man that thin eat so much?”
“I’ve got a fast metabolism!” Boss Minter shouted back.
“I was saying,” Boss Hatchwich said in an annoyed tone, “that I am willing to provide you with proof of my good intentions. Taking and holding land would be difficult without proper arms. That is no longer a concern.”
Without further adieu, Boss Hatchwich handed the gauntlet to Boss Crassok. “I have been busy these last few months making clockwork men, but also a fair number of clockwork weapons. Each of you will receive an equal share of these weapons, including ones built to a goblin’s proportions. I believe you’ll find them most impressive.”
“You’re sharing your weapons with us?” Boss Crassok asked in amazement.
“You sharing how to make the fuel to power them?” Boss Jesseck asked skeptically.
“Boss!” Every head turned to see a goblin run into the meeting. Armed guards with Boss Hatchwich’s clockwork weapons were chasing him, but the little goblin ran under the table and came up next to his boss.
“My invitation was for gang bosses and no one else,” Hatchwich said.
“I’ll handle my own boys,” Boss Jesseck told him. He turned to the goblin and asked, “What’s this about?”
The goblin handed him a sheet of paper covered in writing. Whoever had made this had used blue ink, unusual to say the least, and the writing was flowery. “These papers showed up all over the city, and the countryside and even towns miles from here. I can’t read much, but I recognize the words Cronsword and danger, so I brought you a copy.”
Boss Jesseck waved for Boss Hatchwich’s guard with the toothed sword. “You, Eric, make yourself useful and read this out loud.”
The guard preened like a peacock at the chance to show off his new skill. The gang bosses looked on expectantly as Eric began, “No Secrets: Your leaders are keeping the truth from you! The mad scientist Umber Hatchwich has seized control of a gang in the city of Cronsword. He is forging the other gangs into an army with his devilish clockwork monsters.”
“There is nothing wrong with my clockwork, and certainly nothing devilish!” Boss Hatchwick yelled. He reluctantly conceded, “Maybe their good looks.”
Eric continued reading. “The fiend seeks to conquer lands near the fetid, thief infested city of Cronsword. With his horrid clockworks that pretend to be men and foul criminals, he is a danger to all right thinking peoples. Indeed, he will be satisfied with nothing less than world domination!”
“World domination?” Boss Jesseck asked. “You want to take over the world?”
Boss Hatchwich blushed. “Well, I don’t like to boast.”
“How much did you pay to have these ads written up?” Boss Minter asked.
“I didn’t ask anyone to do this.” Boss Hatchwich took the paper from his guard and studied it.
Boss Jesseck rolled his eyes. “You know what’s going to happen, don’t you? Whoever did this is going to show up after the fact and try to charge you for it.”
“Definitely,” the elf gang boss agreed.
Boss Crassok leaned back in his chair. “Don’t you hate when that happens?”
Boss Hatchwich looked stunned. “No one knew what I was planning to discuss for this meeting except me. How did any learn of my plans? Who would spread warning of my intentions? How far has this news traveled?”
“You’ve got problems, Hatchwich,” Boss Jesseck said.
Two armed guards entered the bank and saluted Boss Hatchwich. “Sir, there’s a problem outside. A man…what we think is a man, is asking to see you.”
That news was odd enough to bring all the gang bosses to the door. They found a crowd outside gathered around a single figure. He, if it was a man, wore glossy black plate armor festooned with spikes and sharp angles. He carried a pair of short swords that ended in wicked barbs. Dark vapors drifted from his mouth.
“Umber Hatchwich, I am Casteel of the Encroaching Darkness,” the strange figure said in an echoing voice. He held up a paper identical to the one Boss Jesseck’s goblin had brought into the meeting. “News of your deeds, both completed and planned, has reached me. You seek to place all of Other Place under your grip.”
Suddenly sounding bashful, the nightmarish figure said, “So, um, I was wondering if you were hiring. I brought a resume.”
New Goblin Stories 16
Guzzle the goblin waited none too patiently for his unwanted guest to arrive. He hadn’t asked for the man to come, nor particularly wanted him to come, but like it or not he was coming. Normally Guzzle would set a trap for the man, but the goblin had been paid in cheese to behave, and there was the possibility of more cheese in the future. Guzzle could overlook nearly anything when cheese was involved.
Many people didn’t think Guzzle was a goblin, although they weren’t sure what he might be. Given that Guzzle had lavender colored skin, wore nearly stylish green clothes, had graying hair and was balding caused much of the confusion, but there was more too it than that. Guzzle practiced a trade other than mayhem (which he wasn’t adverse to), and that was rare among goblins.
The morning sun was fully up and it was getting warm. Guzzle liked warm sunny days like this. His pets were at their best under these conditions. The young forest teemed with flowers, and not far beyond that lay cropland planted with buckwheat. His pets would grow fat under such abundant food.
Guzzle peered down the muddy trail and saw his guest coming. The goblin’s mind raced at the possibilities of which traps he could set and where to place them. This wasn’t a good attitude given how many men came seeking Guzzle’s business. Every time he had a visitor, he was sorely tempted to torment them with traps, insults and inane jokes at their expense.
Customer service was not Guzzle’s strong point.
“Blessings be upon you,” the stranger said as he approached. The man was middle aged with thinning brown hair, and he wore a simple brown robe. He also had a leather backpack, which hopefully contained cheese.
“Enough pleasantries,” Guzzle replied. “You don’t like me, I don’t like you, and the king hates us both. So what’s this about?”
Such a greeting often provoked insults, shouts and whining, and occasionally made visitors leave. This time was an exception. The man didn’t loose his temper, instead smiling at Guzzle. “I have no ill will toward you or any other. My name is Brother Mayfield. I am a fellow apiculturist.”
Guzzle stared at him. “Did you just say something dirty about my mother? Because I haven’t got one.”
“No insult was given. Apiculture is the raising of bees. I raise honey bees, and I am told you do as well.”
Surprised, Guzzle asked, “You’re a beekeeper, too? Huh, small world. Wait a minute, if you’re a bee guy then why are you here? The messenger who told me you were coming said this was about bees, and if you’ve got your own then you shouldn’t need anything from me.”
“I need your help because I raise bees. Mr. Guzzle, I serve the Brotherhood of the Righteous in Sunset City. I manage thirty hives of bees outside the city to provide both honey and beeswax for church needs. The brotherhood has a cathedral in Sunset City, and it is celebrating its bicentennial. Such a celebration requires a great many beeswax candles, more than my hives can provide. I had heard from others that you also raise bees. I hope I can offer you a fair deal in barter for any wax you might be able to spare.”
Guzzle scratched his head. He wasn’t used to being called mister. It felt wrong. “I think I understood a few words of that. You want wax and you can trade for it?”
“That is correct.”
This meeting wasn’t nearly as vulgar as Guzzle was hoping for. Eager to get it back on track, he asked, “What have you got to trade? Dirty limericks, marked cards, incriminating evidence on public officials?”
“I though tangible goods would be a better trade,” Brother Mayfield said as he set down his backpack.
“You’re underestimating the value of dirty limericks.” Guzzle watched Brother Mayfield unload his backpack. “You got cheese in there? The messenger boy paid me off in cheese to not dump cow dung on him or you.”
“I do indeed have cheese.” Brother Mayfield unwrapped a small wedge of cheese covered in paper and handed it to Guzzle, who gobbled it up in one bite. “I also have two ceramic jugs, a square yard of cheesecloth, a pair of scissors, a knife—”
“Forget the rest of that stuff!” Guzzle snatched the knife and held it up to the light. “I want this one. It’s the perfect tool…for revenge!”
That statement gave Brother Mayfield pause. “Who do you want revenge against?”
“I’ve got an enemies list,” Guzzle said proudly. He dug a grubby sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket and held it up. The moment should have been dramatic, but was ruined when Guzzle frowned and asked, “Who are these people? Does this look like my handwriting to you?”
Brother Mayfield briefly studied the paper and read off the first few names. “That guy. That other guy. The guy with the thing.”
“This is insulting!” Guzzled yelled as he snatched back the paper. “I don’t want to get the wrong guys after I went to all this work. Do you know how long it takes to get a beehive up and running?
Brother Mayfield returned the rest of his belongings to his backpack. He hesitated before asking, “You have a troubled relationship with others?”
Guzzle tucked the knife into his belt. “What’s it to you?”
Brother Mayfield looked even more sincere than normal when he spoke. “The Brotherhood of the Righteous is always ready to resolve disputes between neighbors. We’d be only too happy to help if we can solve this problem for you. What person has hurt you so much that you hold such anger?”
“It’s not about me.” Guzzle looked down, his hands clenching and unclenching. “I had a friend who got pushed around a lot. It wasn’t fair, and the guy who did it hurt a lot of other people. Goblins can ignore most of the bad things that happen, but there’s got to be a reckoning for his guy, and I aim to give it. There have been plenty more since him who deserve what they get, except I can’t remember their names. But that first guy, I won’t ever forget him.”
“If he has done wrong, we can aid you,” Brother Mayfield offered.
Guzzle looked at Brother Mayfield. He didn’t doubt the monk’s word, but he shook his head all the same. “This is personal. Come on, let’s get you your beeswax.”
Guzzle led Brother Mayfield up the path to his home. The trail was lined with flowers, and Guzzle’s bees were thick in the air. They buzzed around him as they sought nourishment from weeds and wildflowers that grew in a thick carpet between the trees.
“I came out here to be alone with my bees,” Guzzle told Brother Mayfield as they walked. “There’s good eating for them with all these flowers, and nobody around who could rob me. I had trouble with wild boars for a while, but I fenced them out. Then one year after I moved in, these people come asking for honey. I mean, dozens of them! It was like there was a glowing sign pointing to my house. I was going to let the bees keep all their honey, but men wouldn’t stop bothering me for the stuff. I finally agreed just to get them to leave and traded the honey for things I need, like your knife.”
“I’ve found men, elves and dwarfs ever eager to purchase honey,” Brother Mayfield replied. “I produce hundreds of pounds per year, and it’s never enough. I hope to obtain more hives and one day meet the demand.”
The goblin laughed. “Good luck with that! Anyway, they came so often I couldn’t get anything done. I even cut down trees to block the path, but the bums cleared the road inside of a day. One of these days I’m going to have to get a dog to chase them off.”
Bees became more numerous as they walked until their buzzing was as loud as a busy city street. They finally reached Guzzle’s house, a crude wood structure next to a fenced in field. Inside the field were dozens of beehives set on tall wood tables. The hives were simple affairs, just straw rope coiled to form wide hollow cones. This was enough for the bees, and they were content.
“This is a very healthy population,” Brother Mayfield said approvingly. “How do you support so many?”
“I let them feed on one batch of flowers, and when they’re done I move the hives at night to another patch. I’ve got fenced in places like this all over the woods, each one by good feeding sites.”
Guzzle climbed the fence and dug through a pile of debris next to one of the hives. “Let’s see, straw rope, mouse traps, smoker, leather gloves. Where’s the wax?”
Brother Mayfield raised a hand and let a bee land on his palm. “I admire bees. They have so many qualities man should copy. Hard working, cooperative, loyal.”
“Pugnacious,” Guzzle added. “Kill one bee and every one in a hundred feet will come after you, and they don’t give up easy.”
“I tend to group that under loyal,” Brother Mayfield replied.
Guzzle pushed aside a large roll of burlap and picked up a block of yellowed wax weighing twenty pounds. “So there you are. Here’s all the beeswax I’ve got. If you’d wanted honey you’d be out of luck, but not many people trade for wax.”
“That is perfect,” Brother Mayfield told him. He took the block of wax and turned it over in his hands. “I can melt it and filter out the impurities to get pure wax, and produce the candles the brotherhood needs. Mr. Guzzle, I am grateful for your help and will tell all who will listen of your good deed.”
“Yeah, can we skip that last part? I’ve got enough yahoos pestering me without them thinking I’m nice. Let me walk you back to the main road. I’ve got traps to reset now that we’re done, and signs redirecting visitors to a dung heap.”
“That’s not very nice,” Brother Mayfield told him.
“That’s me in a nutshell.”
The goblin and monk walked down the trail and had only gone a short distance before they stopped. There were five men ahead of them sticking to the shadows provided by trees. Brother Mayfield said, “I fear you have more guests, whether you have goods to sell them or not.”
Guzzle squinted at the men. “They’re not here for honey. Two of them have swords.”
“Hello, Mayfield.” The men swaggered out of the shadows and onto the trail. They wore street clothes no different than you’d find in any city, but all five wore broad shoulder straps with red hands printed on them. Two men had short swords, easily concealable and good for stabbing, while the rest carried daggers and hand axes. “Been a long time, aint it?”
Brother Mayfield turned white as a sheet and backed away. “No.”
“What’s the matter, no friendly greeting?” the man jeered. “No smile and salute? You remember the sign of the Red Hand, don’t you? Twenty years shouldn’t be long enough for you to forget, traitor.”
Guzzle drew his brand new knife. “Who are these clowns?”
“We’re the Red Hand,” the man said. He was roughly the same age as Brother Mayfield but had plenty of scars. Sometime in the past his nose had been broken and not healed right, and his dark hair was shaved so close it was hard to tell the color. The man pointed his sword at Brother Mayfield and said, “All six of us are with the Red Hand. There’s only one way you get to leave, and that’s not by walking away.”
“How did you find me, Staback?” Brother Mayfield asked.
The men came nearer and spread out across the trail. “It wasn’t easy, traitor. We looked for you everywhere after you left. Ships, bars, slums, no trace of you, and here it turns out you found God and went to a monastery. I’d have never guessed it in a million years. But somebody found out, and he left these fliers all over town.”
Staback held up a sheet of paper covered in writing. “I wonder why he used blue ink. You know what it says, traitor? No secrets: Your leaders are keeping the truth from you! The Brotherhood of the Righteous has accepted known criminals into their ranks. Robbers, smugglers and forgers have taken religious vows as if they were law-abiding citizens. They’ve got some names here, traitor, with yours at the top.”
“I had to go, Staback,” Brother Mayfield said. “I couldn’t live with the violence, the hate, the suffering. We were making life miserable for thousand of people and for ourselves. How many of our friends did we bury? How many were left crippled?”
“You don’t get to use the word friends around me!” Staback screamed. “You were my right hand man! I counted on you! When I needed you, when the Red Hands were ready to take over Nolod’s port district and finish off the other gangs, what happens but you ran off. Worse than that, you got a quarter of my men to leave with you. The Red Hands could have controlled the port and gotten rich looting warehouses and ships, selling the goods on the black market, and instead we were pushed off to a stinking corner of Nolod. Friends? You have no friends.”
“Every corner of Nolod stinks,” Guzzle said. “I’ve been there. Not good for bees.”
Brother Mayfield regained his composure fast. “We were monsters on two legs, Staback. Nolod knew constant suffering because of us. I tried to talk to you, but you wouldn’t listen. I saved as many of our brothers as possible, and I would have saved you if I could.”
Staback threw the sheet of paper to the ground. “I didn’t come for a sermon, traitor. I came for your head. You love your God so much, then I’m happy to introduce you to him right now.”
One of Staback’s men threw an ax at Brother Mayfield. Guzzle shouted a warning, but to his amazement, Brother Mayfield slapped the ax out of the air with the palm of his hand and sent it spinning into the forest. A swordsman charged the monk and tried to skewer him. Brother Mayfield used the block of wax as a shield. The sword sunk so deep into it that the blade stuck, and Brother Mayfield twisted the block and wrenched the sword out of the man’s hands. Another man tried to strike the monk with an ax.
Guzzle was used to being overlooked. It came with the territory when you were a goblin. These men were so focused on their target that they forgot all about him. Guzzle ran straight for the man with the ax and kicked him in the shin. It wasn’t a crippling blow, but enough to make the man howl in pain and stagger off.
Staback went after Brother Mayfield. The monk dodged one swing and then a second, losing only a piece of his robe to the furious swings. “I see you ain’t forgotten what I taught you, traitor!”
Brother Mayfield slipped off his backpack and swung it into Staback’s face. The blow knocked him down and left him at the monk’s feet. Another gang member threw an ax at Brother Mayfield. This time he blocked it with his backpack. The ax shattered the ceramic jars in the backpack, but it got stuck in the leather. Brother Mayfield pulled out the ax and looked down at Staback. Man and goblin alike were shocked when he tossed the weapon to the ground.
“I won’t take a life, not even to save my own,” Brother Mayfield said.
Staback got to his feet again. “Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought, and you’re going to be a dead fool.”
Guzzle grabbed Brother Mayfield’s hand and pulled. “Back to my place! Hurry!”
The two ran. The gang members didn’t follow right away, instead recovering their weapons before chasing their prey. Guzzle huffed and puffed from the exertion, but he and the monk reached Guzzle’s house. The goblin climbed over the fence and urged Brother Mayfield to follow.
“You ain’t getting away that easy, traitor!” Staback shouted. “You’re not getting away at all!”
“I’m sorry,” Brother Mayfield told Guzzle as armed men surrounded them.
“I’m not,” the goblin replied.
“No more running away,” Staback said and he raised his sword.
Guzzle sneered and grabbed a beehive. “We didn’t run away. I came here with malicious intentions, you pathetic little man. Let me tell you something no one’s ever understood about me. I don’t raise bees for honey or wax.”
Grinning like a maniac, Guzzle said, “I raise bees to have bees.”
With that Guzzle threw the hive at Staback and struck the man in the chest, killing a few bees in the hive and enraging the rest. Thousands of angry bees swarmed over the gang members. Worse was to come. The other hives emptied out as over a hundred thousand bees poured forth. As Guzzle had said, killing one bee brings more bees to avenge the loss, and they came eager for battle.
“Get down!” Guzzle yelled. He and Brother Mayfield dropped to the ground, and Guzzle covered them both with the sheet of burlap he kept by his hives. They heard angry buzzing and equally angry yells from Staback and his men. Those angry yells turned to panic and then terror. The yells receded into the distance as members of the Red Hands fled for their lives.
Guzzle and Brother Mayfield stayed safe under the burlap for nearly an hour, only daring to venture forth once they were sure the bees had calmed down. They found weapons abandoned around the fence and house. Staback and the rest of the Red Hand he’d brought were long gone. Brother Mayfield looked shaken. Guzzle was exuberant, awed that his bees had proven themselves such a potent weapon for the next time he needed them.
Smiling, Guzzle turned to Brother Mayfield and said, “That went well. What should we do next?”
Many people didn’t think Guzzle was a goblin, although they weren’t sure what he might be. Given that Guzzle had lavender colored skin, wore nearly stylish green clothes, had graying hair and was balding caused much of the confusion, but there was more too it than that. Guzzle practiced a trade other than mayhem (which he wasn’t adverse to), and that was rare among goblins.
The morning sun was fully up and it was getting warm. Guzzle liked warm sunny days like this. His pets were at their best under these conditions. The young forest teemed with flowers, and not far beyond that lay cropland planted with buckwheat. His pets would grow fat under such abundant food.
Guzzle peered down the muddy trail and saw his guest coming. The goblin’s mind raced at the possibilities of which traps he could set and where to place them. This wasn’t a good attitude given how many men came seeking Guzzle’s business. Every time he had a visitor, he was sorely tempted to torment them with traps, insults and inane jokes at their expense.
Customer service was not Guzzle’s strong point.
“Blessings be upon you,” the stranger said as he approached. The man was middle aged with thinning brown hair, and he wore a simple brown robe. He also had a leather backpack, which hopefully contained cheese.
“Enough pleasantries,” Guzzle replied. “You don’t like me, I don’t like you, and the king hates us both. So what’s this about?”
Such a greeting often provoked insults, shouts and whining, and occasionally made visitors leave. This time was an exception. The man didn’t loose his temper, instead smiling at Guzzle. “I have no ill will toward you or any other. My name is Brother Mayfield. I am a fellow apiculturist.”
Guzzle stared at him. “Did you just say something dirty about my mother? Because I haven’t got one.”
“No insult was given. Apiculture is the raising of bees. I raise honey bees, and I am told you do as well.”
Surprised, Guzzle asked, “You’re a beekeeper, too? Huh, small world. Wait a minute, if you’re a bee guy then why are you here? The messenger who told me you were coming said this was about bees, and if you’ve got your own then you shouldn’t need anything from me.”
“I need your help because I raise bees. Mr. Guzzle, I serve the Brotherhood of the Righteous in Sunset City. I manage thirty hives of bees outside the city to provide both honey and beeswax for church needs. The brotherhood has a cathedral in Sunset City, and it is celebrating its bicentennial. Such a celebration requires a great many beeswax candles, more than my hives can provide. I had heard from others that you also raise bees. I hope I can offer you a fair deal in barter for any wax you might be able to spare.”
Guzzle scratched his head. He wasn’t used to being called mister. It felt wrong. “I think I understood a few words of that. You want wax and you can trade for it?”
“That is correct.”
This meeting wasn’t nearly as vulgar as Guzzle was hoping for. Eager to get it back on track, he asked, “What have you got to trade? Dirty limericks, marked cards, incriminating evidence on public officials?”
“I though tangible goods would be a better trade,” Brother Mayfield said as he set down his backpack.
“You’re underestimating the value of dirty limericks.” Guzzle watched Brother Mayfield unload his backpack. “You got cheese in there? The messenger boy paid me off in cheese to not dump cow dung on him or you.”
“I do indeed have cheese.” Brother Mayfield unwrapped a small wedge of cheese covered in paper and handed it to Guzzle, who gobbled it up in one bite. “I also have two ceramic jugs, a square yard of cheesecloth, a pair of scissors, a knife—”
“Forget the rest of that stuff!” Guzzle snatched the knife and held it up to the light. “I want this one. It’s the perfect tool…for revenge!”
That statement gave Brother Mayfield pause. “Who do you want revenge against?”
“I’ve got an enemies list,” Guzzle said proudly. He dug a grubby sheet of paper out of his shirt pocket and held it up. The moment should have been dramatic, but was ruined when Guzzle frowned and asked, “Who are these people? Does this look like my handwriting to you?”
Brother Mayfield briefly studied the paper and read off the first few names. “That guy. That other guy. The guy with the thing.”
“This is insulting!” Guzzled yelled as he snatched back the paper. “I don’t want to get the wrong guys after I went to all this work. Do you know how long it takes to get a beehive up and running?
Brother Mayfield returned the rest of his belongings to his backpack. He hesitated before asking, “You have a troubled relationship with others?”
Guzzle tucked the knife into his belt. “What’s it to you?”
Brother Mayfield looked even more sincere than normal when he spoke. “The Brotherhood of the Righteous is always ready to resolve disputes between neighbors. We’d be only too happy to help if we can solve this problem for you. What person has hurt you so much that you hold such anger?”
“It’s not about me.” Guzzle looked down, his hands clenching and unclenching. “I had a friend who got pushed around a lot. It wasn’t fair, and the guy who did it hurt a lot of other people. Goblins can ignore most of the bad things that happen, but there’s got to be a reckoning for his guy, and I aim to give it. There have been plenty more since him who deserve what they get, except I can’t remember their names. But that first guy, I won’t ever forget him.”
“If he has done wrong, we can aid you,” Brother Mayfield offered.
Guzzle looked at Brother Mayfield. He didn’t doubt the monk’s word, but he shook his head all the same. “This is personal. Come on, let’s get you your beeswax.”
Guzzle led Brother Mayfield up the path to his home. The trail was lined with flowers, and Guzzle’s bees were thick in the air. They buzzed around him as they sought nourishment from weeds and wildflowers that grew in a thick carpet between the trees.
“I came out here to be alone with my bees,” Guzzle told Brother Mayfield as they walked. “There’s good eating for them with all these flowers, and nobody around who could rob me. I had trouble with wild boars for a while, but I fenced them out. Then one year after I moved in, these people come asking for honey. I mean, dozens of them! It was like there was a glowing sign pointing to my house. I was going to let the bees keep all their honey, but men wouldn’t stop bothering me for the stuff. I finally agreed just to get them to leave and traded the honey for things I need, like your knife.”
“I’ve found men, elves and dwarfs ever eager to purchase honey,” Brother Mayfield replied. “I produce hundreds of pounds per year, and it’s never enough. I hope to obtain more hives and one day meet the demand.”
The goblin laughed. “Good luck with that! Anyway, they came so often I couldn’t get anything done. I even cut down trees to block the path, but the bums cleared the road inside of a day. One of these days I’m going to have to get a dog to chase them off.”
Bees became more numerous as they walked until their buzzing was as loud as a busy city street. They finally reached Guzzle’s house, a crude wood structure next to a fenced in field. Inside the field were dozens of beehives set on tall wood tables. The hives were simple affairs, just straw rope coiled to form wide hollow cones. This was enough for the bees, and they were content.
“This is a very healthy population,” Brother Mayfield said approvingly. “How do you support so many?”
“I let them feed on one batch of flowers, and when they’re done I move the hives at night to another patch. I’ve got fenced in places like this all over the woods, each one by good feeding sites.”
Guzzle climbed the fence and dug through a pile of debris next to one of the hives. “Let’s see, straw rope, mouse traps, smoker, leather gloves. Where’s the wax?”
Brother Mayfield raised a hand and let a bee land on his palm. “I admire bees. They have so many qualities man should copy. Hard working, cooperative, loyal.”
“Pugnacious,” Guzzle added. “Kill one bee and every one in a hundred feet will come after you, and they don’t give up easy.”
“I tend to group that under loyal,” Brother Mayfield replied.
Guzzle pushed aside a large roll of burlap and picked up a block of yellowed wax weighing twenty pounds. “So there you are. Here’s all the beeswax I’ve got. If you’d wanted honey you’d be out of luck, but not many people trade for wax.”
“That is perfect,” Brother Mayfield told him. He took the block of wax and turned it over in his hands. “I can melt it and filter out the impurities to get pure wax, and produce the candles the brotherhood needs. Mr. Guzzle, I am grateful for your help and will tell all who will listen of your good deed.”
“Yeah, can we skip that last part? I’ve got enough yahoos pestering me without them thinking I’m nice. Let me walk you back to the main road. I’ve got traps to reset now that we’re done, and signs redirecting visitors to a dung heap.”
“That’s not very nice,” Brother Mayfield told him.
“That’s me in a nutshell.”
The goblin and monk walked down the trail and had only gone a short distance before they stopped. There were five men ahead of them sticking to the shadows provided by trees. Brother Mayfield said, “I fear you have more guests, whether you have goods to sell them or not.”
Guzzle squinted at the men. “They’re not here for honey. Two of them have swords.”
“Hello, Mayfield.” The men swaggered out of the shadows and onto the trail. They wore street clothes no different than you’d find in any city, but all five wore broad shoulder straps with red hands printed on them. Two men had short swords, easily concealable and good for stabbing, while the rest carried daggers and hand axes. “Been a long time, aint it?”
Brother Mayfield turned white as a sheet and backed away. “No.”
“What’s the matter, no friendly greeting?” the man jeered. “No smile and salute? You remember the sign of the Red Hand, don’t you? Twenty years shouldn’t be long enough for you to forget, traitor.”
Guzzle drew his brand new knife. “Who are these clowns?”
“We’re the Red Hand,” the man said. He was roughly the same age as Brother Mayfield but had plenty of scars. Sometime in the past his nose had been broken and not healed right, and his dark hair was shaved so close it was hard to tell the color. The man pointed his sword at Brother Mayfield and said, “All six of us are with the Red Hand. There’s only one way you get to leave, and that’s not by walking away.”
“How did you find me, Staback?” Brother Mayfield asked.
The men came nearer and spread out across the trail. “It wasn’t easy, traitor. We looked for you everywhere after you left. Ships, bars, slums, no trace of you, and here it turns out you found God and went to a monastery. I’d have never guessed it in a million years. But somebody found out, and he left these fliers all over town.”
Staback held up a sheet of paper covered in writing. “I wonder why he used blue ink. You know what it says, traitor? No secrets: Your leaders are keeping the truth from you! The Brotherhood of the Righteous has accepted known criminals into their ranks. Robbers, smugglers and forgers have taken religious vows as if they were law-abiding citizens. They’ve got some names here, traitor, with yours at the top.”
“I had to go, Staback,” Brother Mayfield said. “I couldn’t live with the violence, the hate, the suffering. We were making life miserable for thousand of people and for ourselves. How many of our friends did we bury? How many were left crippled?”
“You don’t get to use the word friends around me!” Staback screamed. “You were my right hand man! I counted on you! When I needed you, when the Red Hands were ready to take over Nolod’s port district and finish off the other gangs, what happens but you ran off. Worse than that, you got a quarter of my men to leave with you. The Red Hands could have controlled the port and gotten rich looting warehouses and ships, selling the goods on the black market, and instead we were pushed off to a stinking corner of Nolod. Friends? You have no friends.”
“Every corner of Nolod stinks,” Guzzle said. “I’ve been there. Not good for bees.”
Brother Mayfield regained his composure fast. “We were monsters on two legs, Staback. Nolod knew constant suffering because of us. I tried to talk to you, but you wouldn’t listen. I saved as many of our brothers as possible, and I would have saved you if I could.”
Staback threw the sheet of paper to the ground. “I didn’t come for a sermon, traitor. I came for your head. You love your God so much, then I’m happy to introduce you to him right now.”
One of Staback’s men threw an ax at Brother Mayfield. Guzzle shouted a warning, but to his amazement, Brother Mayfield slapped the ax out of the air with the palm of his hand and sent it spinning into the forest. A swordsman charged the monk and tried to skewer him. Brother Mayfield used the block of wax as a shield. The sword sunk so deep into it that the blade stuck, and Brother Mayfield twisted the block and wrenched the sword out of the man’s hands. Another man tried to strike the monk with an ax.
Guzzle was used to being overlooked. It came with the territory when you were a goblin. These men were so focused on their target that they forgot all about him. Guzzle ran straight for the man with the ax and kicked him in the shin. It wasn’t a crippling blow, but enough to make the man howl in pain and stagger off.
Staback went after Brother Mayfield. The monk dodged one swing and then a second, losing only a piece of his robe to the furious swings. “I see you ain’t forgotten what I taught you, traitor!”
Brother Mayfield slipped off his backpack and swung it into Staback’s face. The blow knocked him down and left him at the monk’s feet. Another gang member threw an ax at Brother Mayfield. This time he blocked it with his backpack. The ax shattered the ceramic jars in the backpack, but it got stuck in the leather. Brother Mayfield pulled out the ax and looked down at Staback. Man and goblin alike were shocked when he tossed the weapon to the ground.
“I won’t take a life, not even to save my own,” Brother Mayfield said.
Staback got to his feet again. “Then you’re a bigger fool than I thought, and you’re going to be a dead fool.”
Guzzle grabbed Brother Mayfield’s hand and pulled. “Back to my place! Hurry!”
The two ran. The gang members didn’t follow right away, instead recovering their weapons before chasing their prey. Guzzle huffed and puffed from the exertion, but he and the monk reached Guzzle’s house. The goblin climbed over the fence and urged Brother Mayfield to follow.
“You ain’t getting away that easy, traitor!” Staback shouted. “You’re not getting away at all!”
“I’m sorry,” Brother Mayfield told Guzzle as armed men surrounded them.
“I’m not,” the goblin replied.
“No more running away,” Staback said and he raised his sword.
Guzzle sneered and grabbed a beehive. “We didn’t run away. I came here with malicious intentions, you pathetic little man. Let me tell you something no one’s ever understood about me. I don’t raise bees for honey or wax.”
Grinning like a maniac, Guzzle said, “I raise bees to have bees.”
With that Guzzle threw the hive at Staback and struck the man in the chest, killing a few bees in the hive and enraging the rest. Thousands of angry bees swarmed over the gang members. Worse was to come. The other hives emptied out as over a hundred thousand bees poured forth. As Guzzle had said, killing one bee brings more bees to avenge the loss, and they came eager for battle.
“Get down!” Guzzle yelled. He and Brother Mayfield dropped to the ground, and Guzzle covered them both with the sheet of burlap he kept by his hives. They heard angry buzzing and equally angry yells from Staback and his men. Those angry yells turned to panic and then terror. The yells receded into the distance as members of the Red Hands fled for their lives.
Guzzle and Brother Mayfield stayed safe under the burlap for nearly an hour, only daring to venture forth once they were sure the bees had calmed down. They found weapons abandoned around the fence and house. Staback and the rest of the Red Hand he’d brought were long gone. Brother Mayfield looked shaken. Guzzle was exuberant, awed that his bees had proven themselves such a potent weapon for the next time he needed them.
Smiling, Guzzle turned to Brother Mayfield and said, “That went well. What should we do next?”
New Goblin Stories 21
Brody and Habbly stopped outside the door of what had to be the most disreputably bar in existence. The smell alone was enough to earn that dubious honor, a mix of stale beer, unwashed patrons, spoiled food and an indescribable foulness coming from the corners of the building, source unknown. Vermin of all stripes and colors scurried about, snapping up bits of food that had fallen or been thrown on the floor, and in some cases preying upon one another. Patrons of this vile establishment were a mixed bunch, some poor, others criminal, all so desperate that they tolerated the dim lighting, sticky floors and questionable company.
“Only Cronsword could have a place this disgusting and not get it shut down or burned down,” Brody said.
“Nolod is almost this bad,” Habbly said when a centipede crawled over his foot.
“You’re sure he’s in here?” Brody asked. The filth and smell didn’t bother him, especially when the rest of Cronsword was as messy as a pigsty, but this could be dangerous.
“Five goblins saw him go in yesterday and not come out,” Habbly replied.
“They might have been lying to get rid of us. That’s happened more than once this week.”
“We’ve run out of leads to check,” Habbly countered. “If he’s not here then I don’t know where else to look. Be honest, this is his kind of place.”
Brody peeked his head in the bar and saw a man get thrown across the room. “It’s got an ‘anarchy bordering on civil war’ feel to it he would appreciate, even add to. We’ll look, but if he’s not here I vote we torch the place on our way out.”
Habbly led the way as they went inside. “You’ve been spending too much time around Craton.”
Normally goblins visit bars like this to cause trouble, as the drunken and often angry men found in bars make for good victims of goblin pranks. Sometimes goblins visit bars to give gifts to men drinking away their sorrows, slipping coins and even jewelry into their pockets. Such gifts are inevitably stolen from rich men who have annoyed those goblins, but the sources are unimportant.
This time was different, for Brody and Habbly had come in search of help. For two weeks they’d searched high and low, mostly low, for the one person they were sure could help them. Julius, Officer Dalton and Kadid Lan were searching for the authors of strange papers causing so much trouble. Impressive as they were, there were places such men couldn’t go, people who wouldn’t talk to them. Goblins had their own limitations and weren’t welcome in polite company, but among the dregs of society a goblin could do much.
“What’s this?” a patron asked when Brody and Habbly walked by him. The man staggered to his feet and stepped in front of them. “More goblins. Is there a plague of goblins? A migration? An invasion?”
“A convention,” Habbly told him.
Brody glanced at the filthy man staggering under the effects of drink. “You’ve got goblins here?”
“Just one. One’s too many.” The man fell back into his chair.
“Where is he?” Habbly asked.
“Little guy is over, over there.” The man pointed near the bar. There was a small table and one chair in a poorly lit corner. Brody and Habbly couldn’t see who was sitting there, but the bartender walked up to the table and set down a plate of cheese.
Brody and Habbly slipped between tables and drunken customers, nearly slipping on a puddle of spilled beer until they reached the bar. The bartender nodded to them, a rare greeting from a human, and asked, “You’re friends of his?”
Brody peered into the shadows and recognized the table’s sole occupant. “We know him. I’m surprised you’re letting him stay here.”
“He did me a favor. There’s a lady artist living in the apartment next to mine. Three straight weeks of her complaining that I was disrupting her creative energies, whatever that means, and I was at wit’s end. The little guy drove her and her cats off in twelve hours. I figure that’s worth some cheese.” When Brody headed for the table, the bartender said, “You be careful. He’s been hitting the Gouda hard all day.”
Brody and Habbly took two spare chairs and approached the table. They sat down while the lone goblin wolfed down every speck of cheese on the plate. Brody wasn’t sure how to start and simply said, “Ibwibble.”
“Ibwibble the Terrifying,” Ibwibble corrected him. The green goblin sat with his back against the wall and his rucksack by his feet. Ibwibble wasn’t armed, but was dangerous all the same. “Wait a minute, I’ve seen you two before. You were at that mess with the Fallen King.”
“We helped defeat him,” Habbly said.
Ibwibble licked the plate clean and set it on the table. “That goon cost me my audience. Thousands and thousands of people knew and feared my name, until they were chased off. I’ve been trying to rebuild my reputation, get new fans, but it’s not working. I can’t find a tax collector to fight. People don’t like tax collectors, you know.”
“We’ve heard,” Brody said. “Ibwibble, we need—”
“I came here looking for tax collectors,” Ibwibble continued morosely. “I figured, hey, a city has to have zillions of tax collectors to milk the citizens dry. But not Cronsword, no, they have gangs to do that. Not one proper tax collector in the entire city.”
Brody drove off a small furry animals trying to climb up his leg. “It doesn’t look like they’re better off for the loss.”
“I don’t even have my friend Dawn Lantern anymore,” Ibwibble went on. “I didn’t lose him like losing a sock or a comb. I mean, it’s not like I could find him by checking under the couch cushions. We were walking down a road, checking rumors of a tax collector sighting, when all of a sudden men come running at us and drop to their knees. They need my friend’s help or terrible, dire, not at all good things are going to happen. They begged and pleaded and whined. It went on for minutes!”
“That’s tragic,” Habbly said in a deadpan voice.
“Me and Dawn Lantern were getting along really good.” Ibwibble pointed at Brody and said, “Sure, he could help those slobs, and I guess that’s important, but I miss him. I liked talking with him.”
“Do you have any idea what he’s going on about?” Habbly asked Brody.
“Not a clue.”
Ibwibble’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute, how did you two find me?”
“It wasn’t hard when you left a fifty mile long trail of booby-trapped outhouses,” Habbly replied. “Thanks to you, hundreds of people have a crippling fear of toilets.”
Ibwibble chuckled. “Yeah, that was fun, but it was work, too. I need to stay in practice for the day I find where the tax collectors are hiding from me.”
Brody took a deep breath before saying, “Ibwibble, as crazy as this sounds, good people need you. Their lives are in danger because of some idiots telling everybody’s secrets, and that includes secrets that could get you killed. We’re trying to find who’s responsible and put a stop to it, but nobody we know has seen them, much less know who they are or where to find them. We need help. We need you.”
A drunk stumbled by and fell at their feet. No one paid attention when he didn’t get up, and when he started snoring the bartender said, “I’m adding a night’s stay to his tab.”
“Need me?” Ibwibble perked up.
“You were trained by Little Old Dude,” Brody said. “That name carries a lot of weight. You set a trap that drove off a lot of the Fallen King’s men, and you helped take out a hag in that battle. An impossible mission has come up, to find unfindable people, and that means we need the best.”
Brody nodded to Habbly, who took a wad of papers from inside his shirt and spread them out across the table. Some were the papers with blue ink telling secrets, while others were covered in names, tables and charts.
“We need to find who’s spreading this stuff,” Brody said. He pointed at the other papers and said, “We’ve got a marketing plan to make sure the world knows who you are and that you’re on the case. That’s the job, and that’s the reward.”
“I’m not a detective,” Ibwibble said, but his protest was halfhearted.
“You’re a hunter,” Habbly replied. “You hunt tax collectors, canny beasts supported by soldiers and kings. We need you to hunt the people who wrote this trash.”
Ibwibble picked up a paper and turned it over in his hands. He said nothing, but his eyes narrowed as he studied the writing. “Flowery handwriting, good quality paper, blue ink, this smells like money. Parents with cash to spare raised the guy who wrote this, educated him in a fancy school where they teach long words nobody says, like haberdashery. He’s still got money to afford nice paper and so much of it, but he’s scared, hiding in shadows because he knows his victims will come after him. Scared means nobody is protecting him, not kings, not churches, not guilds or noble houses.”
“That fits with what we think,” Habbly said.
Ibwibble read the other papers. “The victims are all over the place. Most of them are humans, but I see names of elves, dwarfs and a few ogres. Mayors, merchants, nobles, gang leaders, wizards, heroes, priests, he’s going after anyone with money or authority. This guy has no friends in society. The victims are spread out over a couple kingdoms. How is he getting dirt on so many people so far from each other? How much of this is true?”
“Every word,” Brody told him.
That made Ibwibble drop the papers. “He hasn’t lied once? Why not? Look at this stuff, gambling debts, mistresses, undercover missions, diplomatic exchanges and smugglers selling goods. He can’t prove any of it and he doesn’t show evidence. If he can’t prove his truths, why doesn’t he tell lies people might believe?”
“That’s why we nee—” Brody began. His voice trailed off when foul liquid dripped off the ceiling onto their table. “What is that?”
“It’s just Gus,” Ibwibble told them. “Don’t worry, he’ll move on in a few minutes.”
Habbly wiped the table clean with his shirtsleeve. “Did goblins build this place? I can’t imagine anyone else being crazy enough to do it.”
Ibwibble pounded on the table. “That’s it! The guy behind this is a nutcase! He thinks he’s smart and trying to prove a point, but he’s a moron who hates everyone and thinks there’s no difference between his victims. Good, bad, that doesn’t matter to him. He’s after the truth like it’s a goal to reach, an absolute, and these people have secrets that hide the truth. Truth matters and consequences don’t, not to him.”
“Are you following this?” Habbly asked Brody.
“Sort of,” Brody admitted.
“Clue me in later.”
Ibwibble jabbed at the papers with his finger. “The guy won’t stop. He thinks he’s on a mission to tell all truths. The secrets he’s telling are pretty small, but it won’t last. He’ll want bigger ones, like treaties between kingdoms, the kind of secrets that might start wars if they get out.”
“A small secret getting out nearly got me and Julius Craton killed,” Brody said.
Habbly looked curious when he told Brody, “This is more than I expected from him.”
“He’s got to be good to cause trouble for decades without getting killed,” Brody explained. “It just doesn’t show most of the time.”
Ibwibble jammed the papers into his rucksack. “If I find this guy, I want the credit, all of it. No garbage about ‘unidentified sources’ or ‘anonymous heroes’. People say I did it, and no take backs.”
“Deal,” Habbly said. “But you’re on a time limit. Julius Craton and Officer Dalton are looking for witness who saw whoever put up these papers. Kadid Lan is trying to find out where the paper and ink is made, since you don’t find pricy stuff like this everywhere. If they find the guy then the credit goes to them.”
“There’s got to be a thousand angry people looking for the jerk behind this,” Ibwibble said. He thumped his chest and jumped off his chair. “I’m going to find him first, because I’ve got drive, I’ve got gumption, and I’m really, really desperate.”
Ibwibble led the trio to the door, stopping only when a garishly dressed man stepped into their way and drew a knife. “I don’t fancy having my favorite bar sullied with goblins.”
Brody grabbed a stool and swung it like a club into the man’s knees, sending him screaming to the ground. Two more hits to the arms forced the garish stranger to drop his knife, which Brody kicked into the nearest corner. The stranger was reaching for a second knife when Brody tipped a table onto him, spilling hot food and cold drinks onto the man.
Habbly spun around, looking for anyone coming to join the fight. To his surprise, no one seemed to notice or care about it except for a lone man who took the dropped knife. Habbly looked at Brody and said, “Julius is a bad influence on you.”
Ibwibble didn’t waste any time once they left the bar, leading them through the crowded streets and back alleys of Cronsword. The city was abuzz with activity as refugees came on foot and by boat. They were not alone, though, for a dizzying array of armed men, dwarfs, ogres, harpies, gnomes and still stranger things flooded into the city. In most cities such an influx of possibly criminal and definitely dangerous beings would be cause for alarm, but instead gangsters directed the crowd into lines leading to large tables covered with paperwork.
“Wizards, alchemists and mad scientists, please go to the line on the left,” a man with a brass gauntlet called out. “Thieves, bandits and blackguards, go to the center line. Fighters, warriors and toughs, go to the right line. Monsters, mystical beings and curse victims, go to the back line. Please have your credentials ready before reaching the sign up tables.”
A gnome riding what looked like a chest with spidery wooden legs approached the man. “What if you’re in more than one category?”
“Pick whichever category is most dangerous,” the man replied. He pointed at a monster and shouted, “No eating other people in line!”
“This is unusual,” Brody said as he followed Ibwibble.
Ibwibble waved his hand like he was fanning away a bad smell. “Some yahoo called Hatchwich is planning on taking over the world. Not my cup of tea, but I say more power to him. Maybe one day he’ll have tax collectors for me to hunt.”
Surprised, Habbly asked, “You’re not joining him?”
“Ha! I’m going to be the ringmaster of my own circus, not a clown in his.”
It took some time, but they eventually left the growing army of malcontents and entered a busy street filled with clothing shops. There they came upon an old blind man sitting on a corner. The man wore raggedy clothes and a blindfold, and he waved a tin cup at men walking down the street.
“Spare a copper coin for a blind man,” the old man said when a merchant walked by. It was not a request, and when the merchant didn’t drop a coin the blind man said, “Be a shame if your wife learned about the bachelor party you went to last week. Crying shame.”
The merchant grumbled and tossed in the required payment before leaving. The blind man chuckled and slipped the coin into a pouch. Ibwibble walked up to the man and stopped. The blind man frowned and set down his cup. “You’re going to drive off my customers, Ibwibble.”
“You have victims, Quaid, not customers.” Ibwibble waved for the other goblins to join him. “This is Quaid, blind fortune teller and a reliable source of information nobody wants to get out. I’ve hired him in the past to help me find tax collectors.”
“If he can learn secrets, how do we know he’s not behind this?” Brody asked.
Ibwibble laughed. “If he had done this, he would have charged big and told nastier secrets. Quaid, there’s a nutcase spreading ugly truths. I’m after him. You play ball and I’ll pay seventeen copper coins, half a silver piece, a shiny rock and a small green frog.”
The offer relaxed Quaid, and he tapped the street beside him. Once the goblins had sat down, Quaid said, “The money is appreciated. You can keep the frog.”
“The frog is part of the deal,” Ibwibble insisted.
Quaid shrugged. “Fine, I’ll take the frog. I know of the messages you refer to. I’ve looked into who posted them myself in case there was reward money for catching who’s doing it. I’ll tell you what I already know, that the ones responsible use masking spells to cover their identity from my blind eyes, an army of wizards, and countless rich men using crystal balls and magic mirrors to ask the same question you are. I don’t know who is responsible or where to find them. Pay up.”
Ibwibble didn’t hand over the cash. “I’m getting more for my money than I don’t know! This masking magic, how hard is it to cast?”
“Easy for someone with the proper training. Many merchants and nobles hire wizards to cast such spells on their property to keep out prying eyes. There must be a hundred wizards alive today who could do this, and more are trained every year.”
Brody watched Quaid ‘look’ left when a pretty lady went by, his head following her as she left. Quaid chuckled and turned his head to face Brody. “Surprised, little one?”
“Kind of. What happened to your eyes?”
Quaid shrugged. “My eyes worked fine before I learned how to be a seer. It was exciting, profitable, but I discovered too late that there are places it’s not safe to look. It’s a price most seers pay in their ignorance and arrogance. Still, I see after a fashion, better than before in some ways, worse in others.”
“Why haven’t the authorities come to you?” Habbly asked Quaid. “I figure your help must be useful to them and valuable to you.”
“Inside Cronsword there are no authorities, and outside this city I’ve made enough trouble for men in power that I’m not their favorite person.”
Ibwibble snapped his fingers to get Quaid’s attention. “You don’t know where they are now, but can you see where they’re going to be?”
“That’s a tricky one,” Quaid said. He sat in silence and then began to mumble before shaking his head. “The trail is clouded going forwards and backwards.”
Habbly frowned. “We need answers. People are getting hurt because of this.”
Quaid snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute, that might do it. The masking spells keep me from seeing who is responsible, but it covers only those using them. I might be able to follow the culprits by looking for the victims they will leave in their wake. Mind you, that’s complicated, possibly risky, and definitely costs more.”
The goblins went through their meager belongings, coming up with eight more copper coins, a brass candlestick holder and a life-sized wood carving of a muskrat. Quaid took the offered payment and began to mumble again. This went on for some time until he snapped his fingers.
“Got you!” he said triumphantly. “In eight days at the stroke of midnight, their paths will cross with Calista the nymph at her rented apartment in Nolod. The masking spell obscures who will be there besides her and if there will be danger, but that’s the where and when you need to find them.”
Ibwibble handed Quaid the rest of the promised payment, including the frog. “You’re as good as gold. Do me a favor and hold off selling this information to anyone else for one day. Come on, guys, let’s move. We have to hurry to reach Nolod in time.”
“I may be able to sell this information to many interested people, who will no doubt pay more than you did.” Quaid chuckled as the goblins left. “Ah, this is a profitable day indeed. Now then, frog, what am I to do with you?”
“Ribbit.”
Shocked, Quaid shouted, “Oh come now! Where am I supposed to find a princess?”
“Only Cronsword could have a place this disgusting and not get it shut down or burned down,” Brody said.
“Nolod is almost this bad,” Habbly said when a centipede crawled over his foot.
“You’re sure he’s in here?” Brody asked. The filth and smell didn’t bother him, especially when the rest of Cronsword was as messy as a pigsty, but this could be dangerous.
“Five goblins saw him go in yesterday and not come out,” Habbly replied.
“They might have been lying to get rid of us. That’s happened more than once this week.”
“We’ve run out of leads to check,” Habbly countered. “If he’s not here then I don’t know where else to look. Be honest, this is his kind of place.”
Brody peeked his head in the bar and saw a man get thrown across the room. “It’s got an ‘anarchy bordering on civil war’ feel to it he would appreciate, even add to. We’ll look, but if he’s not here I vote we torch the place on our way out.”
Habbly led the way as they went inside. “You’ve been spending too much time around Craton.”
Normally goblins visit bars like this to cause trouble, as the drunken and often angry men found in bars make for good victims of goblin pranks. Sometimes goblins visit bars to give gifts to men drinking away their sorrows, slipping coins and even jewelry into their pockets. Such gifts are inevitably stolen from rich men who have annoyed those goblins, but the sources are unimportant.
This time was different, for Brody and Habbly had come in search of help. For two weeks they’d searched high and low, mostly low, for the one person they were sure could help them. Julius, Officer Dalton and Kadid Lan were searching for the authors of strange papers causing so much trouble. Impressive as they were, there were places such men couldn’t go, people who wouldn’t talk to them. Goblins had their own limitations and weren’t welcome in polite company, but among the dregs of society a goblin could do much.
“What’s this?” a patron asked when Brody and Habbly walked by him. The man staggered to his feet and stepped in front of them. “More goblins. Is there a plague of goblins? A migration? An invasion?”
“A convention,” Habbly told him.
Brody glanced at the filthy man staggering under the effects of drink. “You’ve got goblins here?”
“Just one. One’s too many.” The man fell back into his chair.
“Where is he?” Habbly asked.
“Little guy is over, over there.” The man pointed near the bar. There was a small table and one chair in a poorly lit corner. Brody and Habbly couldn’t see who was sitting there, but the bartender walked up to the table and set down a plate of cheese.
Brody and Habbly slipped between tables and drunken customers, nearly slipping on a puddle of spilled beer until they reached the bar. The bartender nodded to them, a rare greeting from a human, and asked, “You’re friends of his?”
Brody peered into the shadows and recognized the table’s sole occupant. “We know him. I’m surprised you’re letting him stay here.”
“He did me a favor. There’s a lady artist living in the apartment next to mine. Three straight weeks of her complaining that I was disrupting her creative energies, whatever that means, and I was at wit’s end. The little guy drove her and her cats off in twelve hours. I figure that’s worth some cheese.” When Brody headed for the table, the bartender said, “You be careful. He’s been hitting the Gouda hard all day.”
Brody and Habbly took two spare chairs and approached the table. They sat down while the lone goblin wolfed down every speck of cheese on the plate. Brody wasn’t sure how to start and simply said, “Ibwibble.”
“Ibwibble the Terrifying,” Ibwibble corrected him. The green goblin sat with his back against the wall and his rucksack by his feet. Ibwibble wasn’t armed, but was dangerous all the same. “Wait a minute, I’ve seen you two before. You were at that mess with the Fallen King.”
“We helped defeat him,” Habbly said.
Ibwibble licked the plate clean and set it on the table. “That goon cost me my audience. Thousands and thousands of people knew and feared my name, until they were chased off. I’ve been trying to rebuild my reputation, get new fans, but it’s not working. I can’t find a tax collector to fight. People don’t like tax collectors, you know.”
“We’ve heard,” Brody said. “Ibwibble, we need—”
“I came here looking for tax collectors,” Ibwibble continued morosely. “I figured, hey, a city has to have zillions of tax collectors to milk the citizens dry. But not Cronsword, no, they have gangs to do that. Not one proper tax collector in the entire city.”
Brody drove off a small furry animals trying to climb up his leg. “It doesn’t look like they’re better off for the loss.”
“I don’t even have my friend Dawn Lantern anymore,” Ibwibble went on. “I didn’t lose him like losing a sock or a comb. I mean, it’s not like I could find him by checking under the couch cushions. We were walking down a road, checking rumors of a tax collector sighting, when all of a sudden men come running at us and drop to their knees. They need my friend’s help or terrible, dire, not at all good things are going to happen. They begged and pleaded and whined. It went on for minutes!”
“That’s tragic,” Habbly said in a deadpan voice.
“Me and Dawn Lantern were getting along really good.” Ibwibble pointed at Brody and said, “Sure, he could help those slobs, and I guess that’s important, but I miss him. I liked talking with him.”
“Do you have any idea what he’s going on about?” Habbly asked Brody.
“Not a clue.”
Ibwibble’s eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute, how did you two find me?”
“It wasn’t hard when you left a fifty mile long trail of booby-trapped outhouses,” Habbly replied. “Thanks to you, hundreds of people have a crippling fear of toilets.”
Ibwibble chuckled. “Yeah, that was fun, but it was work, too. I need to stay in practice for the day I find where the tax collectors are hiding from me.”
Brody took a deep breath before saying, “Ibwibble, as crazy as this sounds, good people need you. Their lives are in danger because of some idiots telling everybody’s secrets, and that includes secrets that could get you killed. We’re trying to find who’s responsible and put a stop to it, but nobody we know has seen them, much less know who they are or where to find them. We need help. We need you.”
A drunk stumbled by and fell at their feet. No one paid attention when he didn’t get up, and when he started snoring the bartender said, “I’m adding a night’s stay to his tab.”
“Need me?” Ibwibble perked up.
“You were trained by Little Old Dude,” Brody said. “That name carries a lot of weight. You set a trap that drove off a lot of the Fallen King’s men, and you helped take out a hag in that battle. An impossible mission has come up, to find unfindable people, and that means we need the best.”
Brody nodded to Habbly, who took a wad of papers from inside his shirt and spread them out across the table. Some were the papers with blue ink telling secrets, while others were covered in names, tables and charts.
“We need to find who’s spreading this stuff,” Brody said. He pointed at the other papers and said, “We’ve got a marketing plan to make sure the world knows who you are and that you’re on the case. That’s the job, and that’s the reward.”
“I’m not a detective,” Ibwibble said, but his protest was halfhearted.
“You’re a hunter,” Habbly replied. “You hunt tax collectors, canny beasts supported by soldiers and kings. We need you to hunt the people who wrote this trash.”
Ibwibble picked up a paper and turned it over in his hands. He said nothing, but his eyes narrowed as he studied the writing. “Flowery handwriting, good quality paper, blue ink, this smells like money. Parents with cash to spare raised the guy who wrote this, educated him in a fancy school where they teach long words nobody says, like haberdashery. He’s still got money to afford nice paper and so much of it, but he’s scared, hiding in shadows because he knows his victims will come after him. Scared means nobody is protecting him, not kings, not churches, not guilds or noble houses.”
“That fits with what we think,” Habbly said.
Ibwibble read the other papers. “The victims are all over the place. Most of them are humans, but I see names of elves, dwarfs and a few ogres. Mayors, merchants, nobles, gang leaders, wizards, heroes, priests, he’s going after anyone with money or authority. This guy has no friends in society. The victims are spread out over a couple kingdoms. How is he getting dirt on so many people so far from each other? How much of this is true?”
“Every word,” Brody told him.
That made Ibwibble drop the papers. “He hasn’t lied once? Why not? Look at this stuff, gambling debts, mistresses, undercover missions, diplomatic exchanges and smugglers selling goods. He can’t prove any of it and he doesn’t show evidence. If he can’t prove his truths, why doesn’t he tell lies people might believe?”
“That’s why we nee—” Brody began. His voice trailed off when foul liquid dripped off the ceiling onto their table. “What is that?”
“It’s just Gus,” Ibwibble told them. “Don’t worry, he’ll move on in a few minutes.”
Habbly wiped the table clean with his shirtsleeve. “Did goblins build this place? I can’t imagine anyone else being crazy enough to do it.”
Ibwibble pounded on the table. “That’s it! The guy behind this is a nutcase! He thinks he’s smart and trying to prove a point, but he’s a moron who hates everyone and thinks there’s no difference between his victims. Good, bad, that doesn’t matter to him. He’s after the truth like it’s a goal to reach, an absolute, and these people have secrets that hide the truth. Truth matters and consequences don’t, not to him.”
“Are you following this?” Habbly asked Brody.
“Sort of,” Brody admitted.
“Clue me in later.”
Ibwibble jabbed at the papers with his finger. “The guy won’t stop. He thinks he’s on a mission to tell all truths. The secrets he’s telling are pretty small, but it won’t last. He’ll want bigger ones, like treaties between kingdoms, the kind of secrets that might start wars if they get out.”
“A small secret getting out nearly got me and Julius Craton killed,” Brody said.
Habbly looked curious when he told Brody, “This is more than I expected from him.”
“He’s got to be good to cause trouble for decades without getting killed,” Brody explained. “It just doesn’t show most of the time.”
Ibwibble jammed the papers into his rucksack. “If I find this guy, I want the credit, all of it. No garbage about ‘unidentified sources’ or ‘anonymous heroes’. People say I did it, and no take backs.”
“Deal,” Habbly said. “But you’re on a time limit. Julius Craton and Officer Dalton are looking for witness who saw whoever put up these papers. Kadid Lan is trying to find out where the paper and ink is made, since you don’t find pricy stuff like this everywhere. If they find the guy then the credit goes to them.”
“There’s got to be a thousand angry people looking for the jerk behind this,” Ibwibble said. He thumped his chest and jumped off his chair. “I’m going to find him first, because I’ve got drive, I’ve got gumption, and I’m really, really desperate.”
Ibwibble led the trio to the door, stopping only when a garishly dressed man stepped into their way and drew a knife. “I don’t fancy having my favorite bar sullied with goblins.”
Brody grabbed a stool and swung it like a club into the man’s knees, sending him screaming to the ground. Two more hits to the arms forced the garish stranger to drop his knife, which Brody kicked into the nearest corner. The stranger was reaching for a second knife when Brody tipped a table onto him, spilling hot food and cold drinks onto the man.
Habbly spun around, looking for anyone coming to join the fight. To his surprise, no one seemed to notice or care about it except for a lone man who took the dropped knife. Habbly looked at Brody and said, “Julius is a bad influence on you.”
Ibwibble didn’t waste any time once they left the bar, leading them through the crowded streets and back alleys of Cronsword. The city was abuzz with activity as refugees came on foot and by boat. They were not alone, though, for a dizzying array of armed men, dwarfs, ogres, harpies, gnomes and still stranger things flooded into the city. In most cities such an influx of possibly criminal and definitely dangerous beings would be cause for alarm, but instead gangsters directed the crowd into lines leading to large tables covered with paperwork.
“Wizards, alchemists and mad scientists, please go to the line on the left,” a man with a brass gauntlet called out. “Thieves, bandits and blackguards, go to the center line. Fighters, warriors and toughs, go to the right line. Monsters, mystical beings and curse victims, go to the back line. Please have your credentials ready before reaching the sign up tables.”
A gnome riding what looked like a chest with spidery wooden legs approached the man. “What if you’re in more than one category?”
“Pick whichever category is most dangerous,” the man replied. He pointed at a monster and shouted, “No eating other people in line!”
“This is unusual,” Brody said as he followed Ibwibble.
Ibwibble waved his hand like he was fanning away a bad smell. “Some yahoo called Hatchwich is planning on taking over the world. Not my cup of tea, but I say more power to him. Maybe one day he’ll have tax collectors for me to hunt.”
Surprised, Habbly asked, “You’re not joining him?”
“Ha! I’m going to be the ringmaster of my own circus, not a clown in his.”
It took some time, but they eventually left the growing army of malcontents and entered a busy street filled with clothing shops. There they came upon an old blind man sitting on a corner. The man wore raggedy clothes and a blindfold, and he waved a tin cup at men walking down the street.
“Spare a copper coin for a blind man,” the old man said when a merchant walked by. It was not a request, and when the merchant didn’t drop a coin the blind man said, “Be a shame if your wife learned about the bachelor party you went to last week. Crying shame.”
The merchant grumbled and tossed in the required payment before leaving. The blind man chuckled and slipped the coin into a pouch. Ibwibble walked up to the man and stopped. The blind man frowned and set down his cup. “You’re going to drive off my customers, Ibwibble.”
“You have victims, Quaid, not customers.” Ibwibble waved for the other goblins to join him. “This is Quaid, blind fortune teller and a reliable source of information nobody wants to get out. I’ve hired him in the past to help me find tax collectors.”
“If he can learn secrets, how do we know he’s not behind this?” Brody asked.
Ibwibble laughed. “If he had done this, he would have charged big and told nastier secrets. Quaid, there’s a nutcase spreading ugly truths. I’m after him. You play ball and I’ll pay seventeen copper coins, half a silver piece, a shiny rock and a small green frog.”
The offer relaxed Quaid, and he tapped the street beside him. Once the goblins had sat down, Quaid said, “The money is appreciated. You can keep the frog.”
“The frog is part of the deal,” Ibwibble insisted.
Quaid shrugged. “Fine, I’ll take the frog. I know of the messages you refer to. I’ve looked into who posted them myself in case there was reward money for catching who’s doing it. I’ll tell you what I already know, that the ones responsible use masking spells to cover their identity from my blind eyes, an army of wizards, and countless rich men using crystal balls and magic mirrors to ask the same question you are. I don’t know who is responsible or where to find them. Pay up.”
Ibwibble didn’t hand over the cash. “I’m getting more for my money than I don’t know! This masking magic, how hard is it to cast?”
“Easy for someone with the proper training. Many merchants and nobles hire wizards to cast such spells on their property to keep out prying eyes. There must be a hundred wizards alive today who could do this, and more are trained every year.”
Brody watched Quaid ‘look’ left when a pretty lady went by, his head following her as she left. Quaid chuckled and turned his head to face Brody. “Surprised, little one?”
“Kind of. What happened to your eyes?”
Quaid shrugged. “My eyes worked fine before I learned how to be a seer. It was exciting, profitable, but I discovered too late that there are places it’s not safe to look. It’s a price most seers pay in their ignorance and arrogance. Still, I see after a fashion, better than before in some ways, worse in others.”
“Why haven’t the authorities come to you?” Habbly asked Quaid. “I figure your help must be useful to them and valuable to you.”
“Inside Cronsword there are no authorities, and outside this city I’ve made enough trouble for men in power that I’m not their favorite person.”
Ibwibble snapped his fingers to get Quaid’s attention. “You don’t know where they are now, but can you see where they’re going to be?”
“That’s a tricky one,” Quaid said. He sat in silence and then began to mumble before shaking his head. “The trail is clouded going forwards and backwards.”
Habbly frowned. “We need answers. People are getting hurt because of this.”
Quaid snapped his fingers. “Wait a minute, that might do it. The masking spells keep me from seeing who is responsible, but it covers only those using them. I might be able to follow the culprits by looking for the victims they will leave in their wake. Mind you, that’s complicated, possibly risky, and definitely costs more.”
The goblins went through their meager belongings, coming up with eight more copper coins, a brass candlestick holder and a life-sized wood carving of a muskrat. Quaid took the offered payment and began to mumble again. This went on for some time until he snapped his fingers.
“Got you!” he said triumphantly. “In eight days at the stroke of midnight, their paths will cross with Calista the nymph at her rented apartment in Nolod. The masking spell obscures who will be there besides her and if there will be danger, but that’s the where and when you need to find them.”
Ibwibble handed Quaid the rest of the promised payment, including the frog. “You’re as good as gold. Do me a favor and hold off selling this information to anyone else for one day. Come on, guys, let’s move. We have to hurry to reach Nolod in time.”
“I may be able to sell this information to many interested people, who will no doubt pay more than you did.” Quaid chuckled as the goblins left. “Ah, this is a profitable day indeed. Now then, frog, what am I to do with you?”
“Ribbit.”
Shocked, Quaid shouted, “Oh come now! Where am I supposed to find a princess?”
