Arthur Daigle's Blog, page 9

Once Upon a Time in Monster Woods

“Once upon a time—”, Bargle began.

“You muttonhead!” Yot yelled at him. “That’s not the way you start a story!”

“It is so!” Bargle yelled back. The blue, grubby goblin got up off the forest floor and grabbed a stick of firewood. He shook the stick at his fellow goblin and said, “There is a long tradition of pointlessly brutal fairytales starting with those words.”

Yot rolled his lavender eyes. The wrinkly goblin wore an oversized shirt and carried a walking stick, which he pointed at Bargle. “Which is why you don’t use it. Once upon a time was copyrighted years ago. Do you want to get sued?”

Bargle tossed the stick onto the fire and put both hands into his pockets. He pulled them out to reveal their contents, absolutely nothing. “What are they going to take? I haven’t even got good intentions.”

Pith the nearly clean goblin scowled at them. Pith was the closest this band of goblins had ever come to having a leader. Leading goblins starts at impossible and gets worse from there, making Pith’s life a near constant nightmare. He’d tried to run off many times, but the other goblins always chased him down and carried him back.

Pith pointed at a small boy with the goblins, a boy who looked to be on the verge of tears. “I distinctly recall asking for a way to cheer up Ted. Howling like harpies was not part of that request. So kindly take this argument and shove it up your, you know, place no one is ever going to ask to see, and get on with it.”

Bargle grumbled under his breath. He didn’t like story time one bit. It was long and boring, and you had to come up with a new story every time. But Ted needed stories as much as food and water, and it was Bargle’s turn to come up with the story.

The other 120 goblins in their crude gathering waited none too patiently for him to continue. They were camped deep in Monster Woods, a dense forest far safer than its name would imply, and were sitting down to dinner. Goblin cooks prepared the night’s slop while Pith cooked a more nourishing meal for Ted. Fires were lit, food was cooking, and a story was expected.

“Fine, but no more interruptions,” Bargle said. He settled down next to the fire and turned his attention to Ted. “This is the story of how Monster Woods got its name, and it’s a true story. Long, long ago, this used to be farmland. There were fields and orchards and moo cows. Humans raised animals and plants to eat. It was a hard life, but they managed, until one day a terrible monster showed up.”

“Where did it come from?” Yot asked.

Bargle shrugged. “It didn’t say. Monsters usually don’t.”

“What did it look like?” Yot pressed.

Struggling to maintain what little composure he had, Bargel said, “It was mostly mouth with legs stuck on as an afterthought. It had oodles of eyes and tough skin, and it ate a lot. I mean big, heaping piles of meat. The day it showed up it ate two cows, three sheep, ten chickens and a donkey named Merv.”

Pith finished cooking Ted’s supper and spoon fed the child. “There we go, eat it all up, just like the monster in the story.”

“You’re sure he’s paying attention?” Bargle asked. “I’m doing this for him, and there’s no sense in going on if he’s not listening.”

Another goblin poked Bargle with a stick. “Keep going.”

Bargle swatted the stick away. “Fine. The humans were ruled by a baron, a greedy sort who thought every inch of ground was his, and he made farmers and ranchers pay him taxes ever year, the jerk. But his people couldn’t pay taxes when the monster was eating everything that could be taxes, like cows and sheep and chickens and a donkey named Merv. So the baron said he’d pay a thousand gold coins to whoever killed the monster.”

“What, he wanted farmers to kill a monster?” Yot asked.

“No, he wanted bounty hunters and mercenaries and wizards and heroes to kill the monster. He didn’t want farmers to do it because he couldn’t tax them if they got killed.”

Ted pointed at the pot Pith was feeding him from. “More.”

“What is he eating?” Bargle asked.

“The last of the baked beans,” Pith replied. “We’ll need to scrounge up more food for him tomorrow.”

Yet another goblin poked Bargle with a stick. “Don’t stop the story.”

“The next guy who pokes me gets a black eye,” Bargle growled. “The baron got a surprise, because nobody came to kill the monster. Bounty hunters said the monster was too dangerous. Mercenaries said the pay was too low. Wizards ignored the offer because they’re jerks. And the monster ate four more cows, twenty sheep, a hundred chickens and a second donkey, whose name was also Merv. That was a popular name for donkeys back then.”

Bargle took a stick and lit one end in the fire. He held it up like a sword and announced, “But heroes aren’t scared or greedy or jerks, and one day a hero named Biff arrived.”

“What kind of a name for a hero is Biff?” Yot demanded.

“His mother named him that,” Bargle said. “Biff did the best he could with the name he had. Anyway, Biff told the baron he would kill the monster and save the people who were losing animals. He tracked the monster down and found it asleep after eating another donkey named Merv.”

A goblin in the audience raised a hand. “Merv might have been a family name. Were the donkey’s related?”

“I don’t care.” Bargle swung the burning stick left and right, up and down. “Biff fought the monster for hours, hacking and slashing and stabbing and jabbing. When he was done there were gooey bits everywhere, and the monster was dead. So Biff goes back to the baron for his money.”

Bargle tossed the stick into the fire. “The second he showed up, the baron tells him there’s a sword tax, which Biff hadn’t paid. And if Biff is claiming a bounty on the monster then he’s a bounty hunter, and there was a stiff fee for not having a bounty hunter license. And there was a tax for visiting the baron’s territory, charged by the day. After that was another tax and another one. By the time the baron was done, not only was Biff not getting paid but the poor slob was fifty gold coins in the red. The baron threw him in jail until his friends came up with the money. Poor Biff walked away, never to be seen in these parts again.”

“That’s a lousy story,” Yot told him.

“And not a good example for young children,” Pith added. Ted didn’t seem upset, just sleepy.

“I’m not done,” Bargle said. “The baron thought he was clever for getting rid of the monster without paying for it, but the monster had laid eggs before Biff killed it. One sunny day a whole gaggle of little monsters showed up and ate the last cow the farmers had. The baron put out a call for someone to kill the monsters, but no one came. Bounty hunters said if Biff was cheated out of his reward then they might be, too. Mercenaries said the pay was still too low. Wizards didn’t say anything because they were still jerks. That left the heroes, and they weren’t going to lift a finger after what happened to Biff.

“The little monsters ate and ate until they grew up to be big monsters. They chased off the baron and the farmers, and the forest spread out into the fields until it got to be as big as it is today. The monsters wandered off when there was nothing left to eat, but humans thought they’re still here, so that’s why they call it Monster Woods. The end.”

Pith frowned. “So the moral is to keep your word or it will come back to bite you.”

Bargle shrugged. “I was never good with morals. I guess the moral should be keep talking until Ted falls asleep, because the kid is out cold.”

Warm, fed and tired, Ted was indeed fast asleep. Pith placed a blanket over the small boy and gestured for the goblins to sleep. Goblins generally ignored his instructions, but it was late and they were tired, so they reluctantly went to sleep under the dense canopy of Monster Woods.

Only Bargle and Pith remained awake. The two stoked the fire and fed it when it threatened to burn out. Pith waved his hands at the woods and said, “No monsters here anymore, thank God.”

“Yeah, we’re lucky that way. It’s only us and the tentacled horror. How’s it going, big guy?”

A long, segmented red and black tentacle raised lazily up from the ground and waved at them before sinking back beneath the soil. Men or elves would find that frightening, but the goblins knew their neighbor well. Tentacled horrors were vegetarians, and at four tons this one was still a youngster.

Pith nodded at the tentacled horror. “He’s a good sort, and he owes me a small green frog when we were gambling. Tentacled horrors pay their debts. It’s what’s outside the woods that worries me.”

Goblins had always lived in Monster Woods, protected by the wood’s fierce reputation and the generally poor soil, and some of the goblins in this band had spent their whole lives here. Woodcutters dared not enter, and farmers didn’t bother clearing land that was both unfit for farming and ‘dangerous’. This protected them from men who might hunt goblins. Monster Woods was also far enough south and close enough to the coastline that summers were cool and winters seldom had snow. It was a goblin paradise, and lately one they had to stay in.

Bargle stirred the fire with a long stick before throwing it in. “The Crimson Hood bandits haven’t come into Monster Woods in two years. They won’t start now. After all, what have we got worth taking?”

“Ted.”

Both goblins glanced at the sleeping human boy. Goblins as a rule were as dumb as a stump. When Ted wandered into the woods a month ago and stumbled into the goblins, most of the band thought he was another goblin. It was an understandable mistake when the boy was small, dirty and only now learning to talk. Goblins long ago realized they were small and weak compared to most foes, so they banded together for self-preservation. When they’d found Ted, instincts took over and they’d added him to the band. Only smart goblins like Bargle, Yot and Pith understood he was human.

“Men love their children,” Pith continued. “If they see Ted, they won’t ask how he came to join us. They’ll attack to get him back.”

Bargle frowned. “Are bandits really men anymore? Men don’t kill other men most of the time, and almost never hurt women and kiddies. Crimson Hood bandits do it all the time. I’ve seen eight farmhouses attacked this year and four more the year before that. I think that’s what happened to Ted’s family or we wouldn’t have found him in the woods.”

“There’s an irony for you,” Pith said. “All the monsters live outside Monster Woods.”

“I’d heard the hero Julius Craton was coming to get rid of the Crimson Hood bandits,” Bargle said. “The tentacled horror said so, and he’s reliable.”

“One man against a whole pack of bandits?” Pith scoffed.

“He is a hero. You can’t put limits on those guys.”

* * * * *

The goblins woke late the following morning and moved on to the first order of business. In most goblin bands that meant setting traps to plaster unsuspecting people with mud, cow dung, spoiled cream cheese or other offensive substances. But Monster Woods’ reputation meant there was a shortage of victims for their traps. With no one to humiliate and nothing else to do, the goblins were forced to (gasp!) work. That meant find food for Ted.

One goblin offered up a rotten log. “Here you go.”

Yot knocked the log away. “We’ve been over this. You can eat that, he can't.”

“He never tried,” the goblin persisted. “Give the little guy a chance and he’ll surprise you.”

Pith led Ted as the goblins searched the woods. “You know the drill. Bird eggs, fresh fruit, stolen pies and meat are good. He won’t need much, but he needs it soon.”

The goblins hurried across the woods in search of food were a weird bunch, no two alike. Their skin tones ran the gambit and included pink, red, blue, tan, lavender, gray, and two goblins had stripes. Their clothes were rags and cast off human clothing they’d scavenged, plus a generous helping of animal skins, rope and bits of tent canvas. Their only defining features were how short they were, how smelly and how dumb. So mind blowing was their stupidity that it actually warped space and caused sawdust to rain down on their heads. Other races would find such warps raining down junk on their heads upsetting or worrisome, but to goblins it was just another day.

Goblins were rarely well armed, and these ones were worse off than most. They had little need for spears or daggers when no man entered their forest home, eliminating the main reason to have weapons. Goblins were also notoriously poor craftsmen and preferred to steal weapons from enemies. The lack of enemies or even passing travelers meant there was no one they could rob of their sword or axes. Lastly, the woods themselves offered little in the way of resources besides wood, stone and bone, all poor building materials for weapons. Bargle and his fellow goblins got by with crude clubs and rocks to throw, a fact they were perfectly happy with.

Trees were tall and dense in Monster Woods, leaving little space for food that small boys could eat. The goblins eventually went to the edge of the woods, where they found berry bushes and a rabbit. Cooking it took time and generated a lot of smoke. Goblins kept watch in case the Crimson Hood bandits saw the smoke and came to investigate. Thankfully the smoke went unnoticed. Ted was soon fed and as happy as he could be.

With that done, the goblins looked for victims for their pranks. No men, elves or dwarfs lived in the woods, and settlements were few and far between. The soil was poor except for a few spots claimed by farmers long ago. Even those were hard to come by since the Crimson Hood bandits began their depredations.

“We might have to go as far as Honeywild to pester someone,” Yot said as the goblins marched through the woods.

“That’s a lot of walking for some fun,” Bargle said. He’d visited the town of Honeywild years ago and left disappointed. It had too many walls, fences and dogs for his liking.

“Yeah, but there are oodles of men packed in there,” Yot told him. “We’re talking prime victim territory.”

Pith picked up Ted and carried him. “Men in Honeywild carry spears since the Crimson Hood bandits showed up. It’s dangerous to get close to them.”

“Why do they have weapons when they haven’t been attacked yet?” Bargle asked.

“Because they could be,” Pith replied.

“Ooh, look over there,” Yot said eagerly. There was a farmhouse near the edge of Monster Woods. This was one of the few places with good enough soil to grow crops, and the nearby field was thick with wheat. “A farm this prosperous has to have people to annoy.”

Goblins were loud and obnoxious, but they could be quiet when they had to. The band fell silent and edged closer to the farm, creeping between the trees on their bellies. There just had to be an outhouse to trap or livestock to put on the house’s roof. Goblins grinned as they came nearer. They looked for signs of the owners or sounds to suggest they’d been spotted. They’d almost reached the house when Yot stopped and raised a hand.

“What is it?” Bargle whispered.

“No one’s here.” Yot got up and walked over to the house. He went inside and came out a few seconds later. His lip trembled, and he rested a hand on the doorframe.

“If no one is here then we can look for goodies,” Bargle said. He got up and headed for the house. Yot stopped him before he went inside.

“I was wrong. The farmer is still here.”

“Then why hasn’t he…oh.” Bargle’s face turned a shade paler. He put on the smile he used when he lied to strangers before turning to Ted. “Hey there, little fella. Do you want to play? Let’s go over in the field and play. You like playing, right?”

Ted smiled. “Play!”

Bargle took Ted far from the farm and kept the boy laughing and smiling while the other goblins went to work. They needed an hour to bury the farmer and recover what little was left in the house. When they were done, the goblins moved back into the protection of Monster Woods.

Bargle felt better once he was in Monster Woods again. The dark, foreboding woods had plenty of hiding places, and its thick canopy kept out flying monsters like wyverns, chimera and manticores. There were even good campsites scattered throughout the woods where foundations and stone chimneys from old farmhouses remained. The goblins found one of these welcome refuges and stopped to rest.

Noon came and Pith cooked another meal for Ted. More goblins gathered around to watch the boy and play with him. Bargle and Yot walked a short distance away and spoke in hushed tones.

“How bad was it?” Bargle asked.

Yot shuddered. “It was the Crimson Hood, no question. They left their mark on the guy’s door. They’d looted the place pretty good. We found some food they’d missed, so Ted has hot meals for the week.”

“There aren’t many farms left for them to hit. What happens when they run out of easy targets?”

“I guess they’ll go after Honeywild,” Yot said. “Honeywild has good protection with a wall around the town and they’ve got enough men that they might be able to fight off the bandits. The Crimson Hood has eighty or so men, so they might loot a part of the town and come back later for the rest. There ought to be knights or soldiers to deal with this.”

Bargle spat on the ground. “They all went off to war. Hey, if this Julius Craton guy isn’t handy, maybe we can get someone else to help. I heard good things about Sorcerer Lord Jayden.”

Yot stared at him. “The guy who wants to overthrow the king and queen?”

“It’s a popular hobby. The rest of the time he helps out peasants and itty bitty towns like Honeywild. I bet you a small green frog that we can talk him into hunting bandits.”

“It might work. Let’s go deeper into the woods. It’s safer far from the edge.”

The goblin band was morose as they headed for the center of Monster Woods. Goblins were mischievous, but they weren’t used to the violence that had spread to their corner of the world. A few even suggested leaving Monster Woods until the Crimson Hood bandits left or were defeated. The idea wasn’t outrageous. Large groups of goblins like this often relocated when times were hard. They also relocated to find new people to annoy, and sometimes moved for no reason at all.

They came across other denizens of the woods after one hour’s march. Giant mushrooms covered in blinking eyes shuffled across the forest floor in a slow, stately procession. The lead mushroom was ten feet tall and pale white, while smaller mushrooms followed it. A smaller mushroom stopped to study the approaching goblins until the largest mushroom made a rumbling sound that brought it back in line.

“Hi, Sven,” Barge said to the leading mushroom. “You’re starting the migration kind of late this year.”

The giant mushroom rolled its many eyes, as if to say, ‘Don’t get me started.’

Ted stared at the mushrooms as they shambled away. He pointed at a small one in the back and asked, “Monster?”

“No,” Pith assured the boy. “Monsters do bad things. Sven and his family don’t bother anyone.”

Night approached and the goblins made camp. They settled down for the night and drew lots for who had to tell Ted a story.

Bargle started a fire and walked away from the others. “I did last night’s story, so somebody else does it tonight. Pith and me will keep watch.”

“Hey, he draws lots the same as the rest of us,” a feathered goblin demanded.

“Not this time,” Bargle said. He took Pith outside of the goblins’ crude camp, far from Ted’s ears. “I’ve been thinking it over, and I’m going for help. Word is this Jayden guy is nearby. I’ll bring him back.”

“He’ll want money. Humans always do.”

Bargle nodded. “Yeah. The bandits must have some gold after robbing those farms. If he wants more, I’ll say the local baron has gold he can steal. Jayden likes picking fights with royalty.”

“Are you sure we want a guy like that around?” Pith asked. “We might get rid of the bandits and replace them with someone worse.”

“If you’ve got a better idea, let’s hear it, because I’m all out.”

Pith’s shoulders slumped. “I’ve got nothing. Yot and me will keep the other goblins moving so we can’t be found easy. You just be careful. It’s dangerous out there.”

Snap.

The sound was faint and far away, but both goblins heard it. There was another snap, and a bump of someone hitting a tree. Bargle and Pith ran back to the camp as fast as they could.

“Douse the fires,” Bargle ordered. Most of the goblins stared at him, but a few smothered their fires by kicking dirt on them. Goblins grabbed clubs and slings before hiding behind trees.

Bargle heard more snaps and thuds as someone stumbled through the woods, and it was getting closer. There was a jingling noise, like tiny bits of metal shaking back and forth. Bargle had heard that sound once before when he’d escaped a squad of swordsmen.

“Chainmail,” Bargel whispered. “The guy is wearing armor, and I bet he’s armed.”

More jingling followed. Yot tightly gripped his club. “I only hear one guy. Maybe he’s a scout.”

The goblins raised their makeshift weapons, ready to fight if they had to, when a lone man staggered into their midst. Bargle opened his mouth to howl a battle cry when the man collapsed at his feet.

Bargle stared at the fallen man. “That was different.”

Yot frowned. “We usually have to do more to stop a big fellow like him.”

Goblins relit their fires and took a closer look at the man. He wore a steel breastplate, chain armor over his arms and legs, leather boots and a helmet that covered the sides of his face but left the front open. The man had a short sword and dagger sheathed on his belt, a backpack and nothing more. For some reason his armor looked wet under the poor light, but there were no streams or ponds nearby.

A goblin brought over a lit branch to the man, and the band gasped in horror. Their unconscious intruder was wet, all right, but not with water. His armor was stained red, and his leather boots were more crimson than brown.

Bargle tossed his club aside. “He’s hurt bad! Quick, get his armor off and bind his wounds!”

Goblins were tricksters at heart and had no desire to see someone die. They struggled to remove the man’s armor and offer what little help they could. Piece by piece the armor came off, the goblins working slowly to prevent making the man’s injuries worse. Ted came over, but Pith quickly escorted the boy away from the gristly sight.

Trying to fight back a sense of panic, Bargle said, “I don’t know what he was doing out so late, or why he came into Monster Woods. He must have been desperate. Maybe the Crimson Hood bandits attacked him.”

“Then they’re dumber than they look,” Yot said. “This is Julius Craton.”

Bargle’s jaw dropped. “What? You’re sure?”

“I saw him two years ago in Kaleoth.” Yot studied the man, now missing his breastplate and the chainmail on his arms. “He was being chased out of the kingdom after foiling a plot against the king.”

Pith frowned. “They chased him out for that?”

“Members of the royal family were in on the plot.” Yot shook his head. “Poor guy just can’t catch a break.”

Bargle waved his hands at Julius and shouted, “Save him! We can’t have a famous person die on us. We’ll get blamed! Bandage his wounds, stitch him up, anything!”

“He hasn’t got a scratch on him,” Yot told him.

Goblins scooted in closer to study Julius. The hero had bruises aplenty, but no cuts. Puzzled, Bargle pointed to the man’s stained armor and asked, “Then what’s wrong with him, and where did the red stuff come from?”

Pith came over and pressed an ear to Julius’ chest. “He’s breathing. I think he’s just so exhausted that he fell over. As for his armor, if it’s not his blood then he got into a fight and won.”

Yot scratched his head. “What idiot is stupid enough to pick a fight with the biggest hero around? I mean, I’ve barely got two spoonfuls of brains, and even I’m not that dumb.”

“It does take a special kind of stupid to do that,” Pith agreed.

“Freaky,” Bargle said. He helped the goblins scrub off Julius’ armor so the smell wouldn’t attract predators. “I guess we should make a litter and carry him to a safe place until he gets better. Hey, guys, we’re saving a hero. That’s got to be a first for goblins.”

Snap. Snap, snap, thud.

Bargle turned around when he heard the noises. It was coming from the same direction Julius had, but there were several sources. Bargle waved for two goblins to come with him before he went to investigate.

Bargle and the two goblins snuck up behind a tree and spotted the new intruders. There were a bunch of them, maybe twenty. These intruders had spears and shields, and two carried lanterns. They were too far away to see clearly, especially in the dense woods, but Bargle could make out the red hoods the men wore.

“Oh no,” one of the goblins said.

“Back to the others,” Bargle said. He led them back to the group to find Yot standing over their unconscious guest. “It’s the Crimson Hood bandits.”

“They’ve never come into Monster Woods before!” a goblin cried out.

“They’re here now, and I figure this fella is the reason why.” Bargle pointed his club at Julius and said, “There’s no loot here, no farms, but Julius has armor and weapons worth good money. Crimson Hood bandits must have found him and tried to take him down.”

Goblins found two long, narrow branches and lashed them together with strips of leather to make a litter. They lifted Julius and set him on the litter, ten goblins pulling it along at the front while the back end slid on the ground, then dragged him deeper into the woods. One hundred twenty goblins followed, keeping wary eyes on the distant bandits.

Normally this would be enough for them to get away from an enemy. Men so feared Monster Woods that they wouldn’t go more than a stone’s throw within its borders no matter the reason. Even criminals wouldn’t take the risk. But tonight the woods’ fearsome and largely undeserved reputation offered no protection, and the bandits followed them ever deeper into the woods. Their pursuers moved slowly but never stopped.

“This can’t be happening,” a hyperventilating goblin said.

“It is, so keep moving,” Yot told him. “And keep quiet or they’ll hear us. They don’t know we’re here, and we want to keep it that way.”

Bargle looked around until he spotted Ted. The boy was fast asleep in Pith’s arms, a blessing indeed when they needed to be quiet.

The goblins hurried along as quickly and as quietly as they could, but the light and sound of their pursuers stumbling through the woods never left them. Bargle couldn’t figure out for the life of him how these men were following them. The goblins traveled without light and were as quiet as they could be. Why hadn’t they lost the bandits yet?

Then he looked down. “The litter. It’s digging a rut in the dirt when we pull it. The bandits aren’t going to lose us when there’s a line in the ground showing them where to go.”

“We can’t leave him,” Yot protested. “Julius has done good, and he’s not stuck up like most important people.”

Pith pointed at the men still following them. “If we leave Julius then those men get him, and we know how that ends. Get more guys on the back and lift it up, and rotate goblins so nobody doing it gets too tired. We’ll take him to rocky ground where the litter won’t leave a mark and neither will out feet.”

The goblins changed direction and left as silently as they could. Their pursuers weren’t so quiet, tripping and banging into things. There was some shouting as well. Bargle heard what might be an argument, and became so curious that he stayed back as the goblins continued their escape.

“You promised us land!” a bandit screamed. “You said we’d have our own farms! It was supposed to end months ago!”

Another bandit grabbed the first one by the shoulders and shook him. “Hold it together! We’re so close! We can still have everything I promised!”

The first bandit shook himself free. “Everything you promised? My brothers, my cousins, they’re gone! You can’t fix that! We trusted you!”

That was a step too far, and the second bandit slapped him. “Julius Craton took your family members from you, not me. He came after us, and we’re doomed if he gets word to the authorities. We finish this tonight. Now get moving.”

“No! I’m through with you, all of you!” The bandit tried to march off, a mistake he didn’t have time to regret as the other bandits turned on him. Bargle staggered back and tried to look away, but was glad he didn’t when the hoods slipped off two of the bandits. It had been a long time since he’d visited Honeywild, but he had no trouble recognizing the town’s mayor and his younger brother.

Bargle ran to catch up with the other goblins. He stopped Yot in the darkness and grabbed him by the arm. “The bandits are men from Honeywild! I saw them. They talked about getting land and farms.”

Pith hurried over and handed Ted to another goblin. “Then these attacks aren’t just robbery. Honeywild has lots of people and no good land to move into. With those farmers dead then someone gets to take their land. Men in Honeywild must have done those horrible crimes so they could claim the land.”

“But how could they?” Yot asked.

Pith frowned. “If no one knows they’re the bandits, then no one could object to them resettling farms left fallow by bandit attacks.”

Yot waved his hands. “No, I mean how could they attack their own neighbors?”

Bargle looked back at the lights and shouting in the distance. “I don’t know. I think these are all of the bandits left. They said Julius Craton came after them. I guess that’s where the red on his armor came from.”

“But they had eighty bandits,” Yot said.

“And they ran into a hero who’s been fighting impossible odds for years,” Pith said. He glanced at Julius, still unconscious.

That was when Ted woke up. The poor boy looked back at the lights behind them, and he saw men in red hoods. Pith saw what was happening and tried to shield the boy, but it was too late. Ted screamed.

“Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay,” Pith promised, but Ted kept screaming. The poor boy had seen these men before, and he knew terrors the goblins could only imagine.

Goblins broke into a run with the bandits staggering after them. The bandits were nearly as exhausted as Julius and soon lost ground. But even when the goblins reached stony ground they couldn’t escape when Ted’s crying gave away their position.

“I’m rethinking having Ted as a member,” Yot gasped.

Bargle huffed and puffed at the exertion of running so far. “Not now!”

It took far too long, but the goblins got far enough away from that they could stop for a breather. Bargle looked back at the lights from the Crimson Hood bandits, still following them in the darkness. Pith managed to calm down Ted, no easy feat, and a goblin with buckteeth said, “I think we lost them.”

“For how long?” Bargle asked. “They’re after Julius and won’t stop until they get him. Can we outrun them all night? All day tomorrow? Julius is going to need days to get his strength back.”

“What do we do?” asked Yot. He pointed at the following lights and said, “Those men are armed and out for blood. It takes ten goblins to face one human! We can’t fight so many of them. Can we get help from the tentacled horror? I’m not sure we can reach him in time.”

Bargle looked at Julius Craton. The man was a hero, and even he was down and defeated. What hope did goblins have? They were tricksters, annoyances, and the men after them were killers. Terror gripped Bargle, and then he saw Julius’ short sword sheathed on his belt. It belonged to a hero who no doubt needed and demanded the best weapons. It might be the edge the goblins needed. He went over and grabbed the sword.

“We fight.” Other goblins cried out in dismay, certain they’d be killed, but Bargle pressed on. “Those men are tired, scared, lost. They’ve lost three quarters their manpower. If we hit them from surprise and pile on, we can win. We can beat them. We have to. We fight or they’ll keep coming after us and the men living near Monster Woods.”

That’s when Bargle drew Julius’ sword. The short blade was the right size for a goblin, well balanced and in perfect condition. But as he drew it, the sword began to glow. Goblins backed away as the sword rumbled to life.

“Who are you?” it demanded. “Wait, goblins? Julius was fighting bandits when he sheathed me.”

Bargle pointed at the bandits with his left hand. “That’s them over there. Your boss fell down at our knees, and the bad guys are after us. Can help us?”

The sword glimmered before it answered. “Julius Craton is my partner and friend. I’ll let you use me to my fullest extent to save him, but I go back to him once the fight is over. Goblin, I am Sworn Doom, relic of the ancient Elf Empire, and those who face me in battle die. They also have closed casket funerals. Are you prepared for the battle to come?”

Bargle looked at the sword, not scared of it, but sad at what was had to happen next. “Those men have done terrible things for two years. We tried to stay away from them, but they’ve come into Monster Woods, our home. I don’t want to fight them, but I don’t think there’s a choice anymore. They have to be stopped while there are still good people left.”

“Well said. Sheath me until battle is joined.”

Bargle put his borrowed sword back in its sheath, and the glow died away. Goblins were small and weak, but if they struck from surprise, and one of them had a magic weapon, they stood a chance. The other goblins were terrified. He needed them to be strong just for a little while. Bargle gripped the sword tightly before he addressed his fellow goblins.

“Once upon a time there were monsters here that ate up every animal and destroyed all that they touched.” Bargle pointed the still sheathed sword at the bandits drawing closer. “Tonight monsters are here again. They take and take until there’s nothing left, just like before. The monsters in the old days won because nobody stood up to them. Bounty hunters, mercenaries, wizards, they sat back and watched it happen without lifting a finger.”

Bargle pointed at Julius. “One hero stood up to the monsters long ago, and another one is trying to stop the monsters today, but there’s a difference. Biff was alone, but Julius has us. One hundred twenty goblins against tired, scared men lost in Monster Woods. These woods are ours, and those, those things don’t belong here after what they’ve done.”

He turned to face bandits close enough that the goblins could hear the men cough. “The monsters are here, boys. We stop them or Monster Woods grows just like it did in the old days. Yot, take half the guys and go to the left. Pith, take the rest and go to the right. I’ll stay with Julius. Wait until I draw his sword and it gets all glowie, then fight for your lives.”

As inspirational speeches went it wasn’t that good, and Bargle’s plan was questionable at best, but scared goblins followed orders and retreated into the darkness. Bargle stood in front of Julius as the bandits edged closer. The men coughed and staggered came nearer. One of the bandits spotted Bargle standing over Julius. The man squinted and pointed his spear at the goblin.

“Now!” Bargle screamed. He drew Sworn Doom, and the blade glowed as bright as a lantern. Goblins swarmed over the bandits from all sides, swinging clubs, throwing rocks, punching, kicking, biting. They grabbed the bandits’ spears and piled onto the wicked men. Bandits knocked goblins aside, only to have more goblins jump them.

Bargle charged the nearest bandit and swung his borrowed sword. The bandit saw the glowing magic sword and panicked. He recognized it, and with a look of utter desperation he backed up against a tree and raised a shield.

“Doom!” the sword yelled. It went through the bandit’s shield, cutting through it as if it was made of warm butter, and then it went through the bandit.

Bargle gasped in horror at what he’d done. He looked away from the sight to find the fight seesawing between the men and goblins, with each side gaining ground and then losing it. One goblin armed with a magic sword would tip the battle in the goblins’ favor, and its absence would ruin them. He hoped there could be some forgiveness for his actions as he charged the next bandit.

“Doom!”

* * * * *

Julius Craton woke the following morning in a patch of tall grass alongside a road. This surprised him. After last night he’d been sure he wouldn’t wake up at all. He was sore, tired, his mouth was dry and his eyes hurt, but he was alive. His armor and weapon were set beside him, and both had been cleaned. This was odd. Stranger still, he wasn’t alone. A small boy sat on his chest.

“Hi.” The boy was dirty and wore rags, but he seemed to be in good health. He also had a large wood spoon and a tin pot filled with what looked like cold split pea soup. Smiling, the boy scooped up a spoonful of food and tried to stick it in Julius’ mouth.

“Hello,” Julius said. He sat up and put an arm around the boy. “What’s your name?”

“Hi.”

“I guess you’re a little young to talk to.” Julius rubbed his sore arms and looked around. He vaguely recalled fleeing from Honeywild after he’d learned the town’s terrible secret. The night had been a string of brutal battles as he tried to escape. After that things became blurry.

Julius drew his sword and held it up. “I’m not complaining that I’m still breathing, but what happened last night?”

Sworn Doom glowed now that it was out of its sheath, and the sword said, “You received considerable help after collapsing. Your benefactors would like to remain anonymous, and I intend to respect their wishes on the matter.”

“Hello!” Julius hastily sheathed his blade and turned to look at the speaker, and found an old couple hurrying over to his side. “Stars above, you’re Julius Craton! Sir, it’s good to see you well! My grandson saw you fighting the Crimson Hood bandits yesterday. We feared the worst, but here you are alive and well, and with young Ted Valush. We’d thought him lost months ago.”

Julius tried to get up and winced in pain. The couple helped him to his feet, and the woman took the boy from his arms. “I fought the bandits, but I lost sight of them after they chased me into these woods.”

The elderly couple gasped at the news. The woman asked, “You went into Monster Woods? Sir, you must be the greatest warrior ever born to come out alive! And the bandits? Sir, if they entered Monster Woods then they’ll not be seen again.”

Julius studied the woods and thought he saw movement deep within it. Whoever or whatever was there kept its distance. If the person or beast had intended to kill Julius, it had ample opportunities before he woke up, so it was safe to assume the unseen watcher meant no harm. “I’ve never heard of these woods. What danger is in them?”

The old man picked up Julius’ armor and sword before leading him down the road. “You never heard the tale? Well, once upon a time…”

Dr. Moratrayas, Mad Scientist chapter 3

Sandra woke up the next morning on a couch in the castle’s main hall. She yawned and sat up, still sore from the fight. The five men who’d attacked her were gone, carried down to the town below to be guarded by the locals. The man Sandra sent spinning down the stairs would also need medical care for his broken arm and leg.

“Ah, you’re awake.” It was Doctor Moratrayas, coming down the stairs with a tray of food. He looked rested and clean despite last night’s battle. Then again, he wasn’t the one who got tackled. Moratrayas set the tray down on the table and beckoned her to sit. “Breakfast is ready, and you will find a bathroom with a hot bath up the stairs, second door on the left.”

“Thank you.”

“My apologies for not providing better sleeping arrangements. I wasn’t expecting visitors until spring and don’t have rooms prepared. I’d offer you the master bedroom, but it’s currently being used for storage.”

Curious, she asked, “Then where do you sleep?”

“On a cot in one of my labs. I find it best to stay close to my experiments in case they should get out of hand. If just one of my creations goes on a rampage, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Sandra found a veritable feast waiting for her. The tray contained pancakes, syrup, poached eggs, sugared plums and milk. “Thanks for having Igor get this ready for me.”

“Igor can’t boil water without setting something on fire. He is the first, last and only man I have ever met who could burn a hole in a cast iron frying pan. I prepared this.”

“You made this? Uh, thank you. You’re the first man I met who can cook.”

Moratrayas headed back upstairs. “I developed the skill out of self-preservation. Once you’ve tasted Igor’s griddlecakes, you’ll do anything to avoid eating them again. Leave the tray when you’re done and something will be along to pick it up later.”

After eating, Sandra headed for the bathroom. The bath was made from brass (wasn’t everything around here?) and filled with steaming water. She hadn’t had a chance to wash during her journey here, and the hot water felt especially good on her sore muscles. She also found something else the doctor had left for her.

Folded up alongside the bath was a set of clothes. The outfit included a white blouse, slacks, boots, gloves, hat, scarf and cloak, all lined with fur and expertly stitched. It was new, warm and fit like a glove. Given how patched and worn her own clothes were she gladly put on the new garments.

One of the tales she’d heard about Moratrayas was that he’d started life as a tailor. No one knew exactly how he went from such a humble beginning to become a mad scientist. He called himself doctor, but no university would admit to training him or granting him that lofty degree. One thing the stories agreed on was to go along with his self-imposed title or risk angering him. Even referring to his days as a tailor wasn’t healthy.

“Doctor!” a man called out in the main hall. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but Sandra couldn’t say where she’d heard it before. She left the bathroom to see who was calling. She found a young man with blond hair and wearing winter clothes standing in the hall. Not far behind him a young, dark haired woman hung back by the door.

“We shouldn’t be here,” the girl said nervously as her eyes darted around the hall.

“I want to make sure she’s safe,” the man said. He was handsome and muscles bulged under his clothes. He cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Doctor!”

“Hello,” Sandra said. She walked over to the stairs. “The doctor is a bit busy.”

The man smiled and raced up the stairs, covering steps three at a time. He grabbed Sandra in a bear hug that lifted her feet off the floor. “You’re okay! That’s great! I thought you might be hurt.”

“Ah, bruised ribs!” she gasped. The man quickly set her down. “Ouch, yeah, I’m a bit beat up, but I’ll live. I hope this doesn’t sound rude, but would you mind telling me who you are?”

“We met outside town last night,” he explained.

It took her a second to put one and one together. “Wait, you’re Keith the werewolf?”

He smiled and looked down. “Yeah. This is what I look like most of the time. When I got back to town this morning, I heard the men who hit me attacked a woman, and I was worried something had happened to you. Oh hey, where are my manners? This is my best friend, Alicia.”

The girl looked thoroughly annoyed. Sandra’s guess was that Alicia would rather be Keith’s girlfriend than best friend, and really didn’t like him showing another woman this kind of attention. In an impressive feat of cluelessness, Keith didn’t notice Alicia’s discomfort.

“Hi,” Alicia said sourly. “Keith, she’s okay. Can we leave before the doctor shows up?”

Moratrayas came out of a door, backlit by bright green light. “Mr. Sunter, what’s the cause for this visit?”

“Hi, doc,” Keith said with a warm smile. “I just wanted to make sure your guest is all right. I hope you don’t mind Alicia and me checking up on her.”

“Not at all. Your concern for her wellbeing does you credit. Ms. Sower proved most capable in dealing with the men bothering her. I trust you’re well?”

Keith smiled. “Right as rain, doc. Those bums knocked me around a bit before they went after her, but I’m okay. Healing fast is the only good thing that came from becoming a werewolf.”

Moratrayas nodded. “I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Sunter. I’m currently preparing for a trip, so I’d appreciate it if you and your friend could go back to town. Once I return you may stop by anytime you require assistance.”

“Sure thing,” Keith said. He ran down the stairs and took Alicia by the hand. Before leaving, he turned to Sandra and said, “Sorry about those guys bothering you. That stuff usually doesn’t happen around here.”

“It’s okay,” Sandra said, and waved to Keith and Alicia as they left. Once they were gone, she said, “Nice man. Pity he’s as dense as a block of marble.”

Moratrayas closed the door behind him and walked up to Sandra. “He’s blessed in other ways. Whatever his failings, he is loyal and compassionate, traits not to be despised.”

“I know. I’m sorry, that was petty of me.”

“Perhaps, but it was also accurate. Alicia is one of three young women trying to attract his attention, and he has misinterpreted all of them.”

Sandra laughed. “Three?”

“Sad but true. I’ve granted him limited access to my castle so I can provide help dealing with his condition. I may have to sit him down and explain a few other things to him.” Moratrayas glanced at Sandra and nodded in approval. “I see my replacement garments please you.”

“Yeah, they fit fine.”

“Good.” He headed down the hallway without another word.

Sandra hurried to catch up with him. “I’m not trying to be pushy, but when can we leave?”

Moratrayas walked down the hallway and stepped around a large brass and obsidian hedgehog scrubbing the floor. He opened a door and was bathed in green light pouring from the door. “I need at least two days to pack supplies and weapons.”

The answer surprised and disappointed her. Any delay was too long. “Two days? How much are you bringing?”

Sandra followed him into the room and gasped in amazement at the bizarre and chaotic sight. Moratrayas walked in ahead of her and replied, “I intend to bring as many weapons as my barge will carry.”

What had once been a storeroom for the castle had been converted into a laboratory of awe-inspiring proportions. The huge room was divided into two sections, the first heavy with tools and parts for his bizarre creations. Saws, vices, hammers, screwdrivers, wrenches, bolt cutters and an assortment of other instruments hung off the walls. There were reams of paper scattered across the room, with every inch covered in writing and diagrams. Workbenches were buried under partially completed creatures of brass, obsidian and glass, some creations as small as mice and others as big as horses. More of the things hung from the ceiling by ropes, partially completed with their innards exposed. The mechanical carcasses reminded Sandra of a butcher shop.

The second half of the room contained a river barge seventy feet long, twenty feet wide and clad in iron plates. It rested in a pool of shallow water with steel doors on the wall at the front of the barge. The barge had a cluster of brass tubes near the back end and no oars or sails. It was loaded down with bundles, boxes and casks, and a tarp covered something enormous that filled the back of the vessel.

“Wow.” Sandra was too stunned by the sight to say more.

“Yes, I’m afraid the place is a bit of a mess,” Moratrayas said as he walked under a ten legged creation dangling from the ceiling by ropes and pulleys. “One of the reasons I wanted to attract other men and women of science was to assist me. I have to leave many projects unfinished because problems arise that require my attention.”

Sandra studied the disassembled creation hanging in front of her. It looked like a giant crab, five feet across with heavy armor plates and larger versions of the pincers that had attacked her on the stairs. The exposed interior sported wires, pulleys, gears and tubing made from brass or glass. Empty glass cylinders connected to those tubes. Obsidian plates and spheres were linked into the crab for a purpose Sandra couldn’t even guess at.

“Are your monsters alive?” she asked.

Moratrayas picked through the clutter on the nearest workbench. “I call my creations clockworks. To answer your question, I’m not sure.”

“But you make them. If you don’t know, who does?”

Annoyed, he replied, “Just because I don’t know now doesn’t mean I’ll never know.” He saw her cringe at his tone. Grumbling, he said, “It is a complicated matter, and with all that’s been going on around here it’s one I haven’t had time to adequately research.”

Moratrayas picked up a clockwork centipede three feet long with a score of segmented legs. “When I started this work, I would have told you they weren’t alive, that they were constructs that obeyed orders and nothing more. But in the last year I’ve noticed them display behavior I never built into them. Some are more aggressive than I intended. Others have shown rudimentary cunning. A few have proven willful and mildly disobedient. One of them arranges flowers. I don’t know why they do this, nor do I know how to prevent it or enhance it.”

“Maybe they have souls, like purple puppet people,” she suggested.

Moratrayas set the clockwork down. “They are nothing like puppet people. Puppet people are built with magic. My clockworks are the result of science, of research and hard work, not mumbled words and questionable incantations. But to answer your question, I don’t know if they have souls. I haven’t had a chance to ask a holy man.”

Sandra heard something crawling through the nearest pile of parts. She backed away as the sound inched closer. Moratrayas frowned before he marched over and pointed a finger at the unseen being.

“You have a job to do, Irving, and it’s not here. Kindly return to work and leave the young lady be.” Whatever lay beneath the debris and parts made a whimpering sound as it tunneled away. “I apologize. I receive so few visitors that my creations, especially Irving, grow curious when one arrives. I told him to stay out of sight when not needed, which he technically did. Honestly, some days they act like children.”

Moratrayas marched over to his barge. “The army that attacked your town was three or four hundred strong, a potent force to contend with. We may assume they left behind more men to guard their home base. When we reach Stone Heart and the source of your problems, we will face an army of at least a thousand strong, maybe more.”

A two-foot tall upside down terracotta pot slowly slid out from behind a workbench and scooted closer to Sandra. Sounding annoyed, Moratrayas said, “Irving, you’re not fooling anyone.”

Sandra followed Moratrayas as the pot scooted off. It was hard for her to keep from stepping onto the piles of spare parts that filled the floor like they did the workbenches. Pointing to the barge, she asked, “How many of your clockworks can you carry on that?”

“Less than I’d like. There is room for no more than twenty clockworks in addition to Gertrude, my latest masterpiece. They are a force equal to five times their number.”

Twenty times five…hmm. “One hundred against one thousand isn’t very good odds.”

Moratrayas climbed onto the barge and dug through the tall stacks of supplies already loaded. “Where did Igor put my spare cane? You’re right about our chances, Ms. Sower. But one hundred men, or their equivalent, used at the right time and in the right location can work wonders. Force alone won’t be enough to free your friends and family. We will have to use stealth, intelligence and careful planning.”

Something bumped into Sandra’s ankle. She looked down to find a small clockwork shaped like a monkey. Only a foot tall, it gazed up at her with a head that was mostly a smooth obsidian sphere. It held up a small bouquet of tiny white flowers.

“Oh, thank you,” she said, and accepted the gift.

Moratrayas glanced up and scowled at the small clockwork. “We’ve talked about this, Clyde!” The monkey clockwork scurried under a workbench, squealing as it fled. “I built him to fetch my tools, and what does he do? Where did he even find flowers this time of year?”

“They’re pretty,” Sandra said, and tucked the flowers behind her ear.

Up above them, Sandra heard laughter and a voice say, “Hey, the doc made himself a girlfriend.”

Sandra rolled her eyes. “Goblins.”

Sure enough, five goblins were climbing around the rafters above the workshop. Goblins were smelly, dirty and thoroughly annoying creatures. The tallest of them was four feet high and roughly man shaped, and all five had exaggerated features. One had gangly arms, another a large nose and a third looked like nothing more than a huge wad of hair with arms and legs stuck on. The fourth had a toothy grin, and the last goblin had what looked like tiny, ineffectual wings sprouting from his back. They were unarmed and dressed in cheap leather clothes.

Goblins had a deserved reputation for being messy, rude and playing nasty pranks on people. They could be found everywhere, and even a town as isolated and small as Sun Valley had a few hanging around. Goblins could get into any building if they put their tiny little minds to it. Thankfully they only did real damage when they were angry, a rare event indeed.

“That will be quite enough of that,” Moratrayas told them. “Ms. Sower is a guest and will be treated respectfully.”

“Ha!” a goblin snorted. “That would be a first.”

“Is it a good idea to let them in here?” Sandra asked. “They could steal your tools or break your clockworks.”

The furry goblin stood up straight as an arrow and indignantly replied, “Madam, I resent the implication that we might desecrate this place of chaos!”

“What are you talking about?” she demanded.

“Goblins delight in trouble,” Moratrayas explained while he climbed off the barge. “Most of the time they generate chaos and confusion themselves, but if they find someone who seeks to upset the status quo, they either assist or sit back and watch. They cause me no trouble and I return the favor.”

“Yeah, what he said,” the gangly goblin agreed.

The furry goblin nodded. “We figure all we have to do is sit back and wait. Give the doc a few more years and he’ll cause more confusion than we can handle. He’s our hero!”

“And we like the guy with the hunch,” the large nosed goblin added. “He’s an honorary goblin.”

The furry goblin pointed at Sandra. “You we’re indifferent to. Can you do tricks like the doc?”

“Pull a hat out of a rabbit!” another goblin shouted.

“The goblins and I coexist as well as can be expected,” Moratrayas said. He frowned and added, “Although they may be setting a poor example for my creations. The clockworks used to be well behaved.”

“We didn’t do nothing,” the furry goblin replied. He frowned and added, “Okay, there was that one time, but we were hitting the cheddar hard that day.”

Sandra shook her head and directed her attention back to the barge. “I know we would get there faster by water, but maybe it’s worth it to go by land. You could bring more of your clockworks that way.”

“That’s not an option.” Moratrayas rummaged through a pile of parts until he picked up a glass vial filled with glowing green liquid. “This is the fuel my clockworks require. I can only create a finite amount of it at this time, yet another reason why I sought helpers and colleagues. There’s enough on hand to fuel my barge, for emergencies here in Refuge and for powering no more than twenty clockworks for fifteen days. We’d run out of fuel long before reaching the enemy if we went by land.”

“Oh.” Sandra ran her fingers over a disassembled clockwork man. This wasn’t working out as well as she’d hoped. Still, she had Moratrayas’ promise to help. She also had another reason to be hopeful.

Sandra had come to get aid from Doctor Moratrayas, but ten other women from Sun Valley were on similar trips. Jennet Foster went to find the hero Julius Craton and get his help. Another woman was looking for the dwarf warrior Tibolt Broadbeard. Women from Sun Valley also went in search of the wizard Elmore, a holy man who called himself Servant, a friendly minotaur named Herd Leader, and five other notable men and women. The eleven had the power to help their town and at least some inclination to do so. Maybe they wouldn’t all come, but the hope was that at least half of them would show up. Moratrayas was coming with only Igor and twenty clockworks, but that plus a few of the others should be enough to save Sun Valley.

“Did you see my extra cane?” Moratrayas quizzed the goblins.

The furry goblin shook his head. “Nope. Igor has been bringing in armfuls of stuff every few minutes, but no cane.”

Moratrayas glanced over the messy lab. “I’d hire a maid to keep the castle organized if the last one hadn’t run off screaming into the night. I told her to stay away from those gears. What happened to her skirt was her fault and no one else’s. Help me look for my cane.”

Sandra looked through the piles of brass refuse and partially built clockworks, keeping an eye out for gears or anything else moving in the mess. She was a little worried that by getting Moratrayas’ help she had a tiger by the tail. He was powerful, but also unpredictable. Between his volatile personality and his bizarre clockworks that had minds of their own, it was only too easy to imagine him making a bad situation worse.

“Will it take long to get to Sun Valley?” she asked.

“Four days, five at the most,” he replied. “It took some time to find your town on a map. We’ll have to travel through five kingdoms to reach it. Calling them kingdoms is an exaggeration when the largest of them has ten thousand people.”

“That many?” she asked in surprise. Sun Valley’s population had never been above nine hundred.

Moratrayas dug through another workbench piled high with parts. “That’s not a lot of people, Ms. Sower. Kingdoms outside the Raushtad Mountains routinely have populations between fifty thousand and half a million. Of course they have more arable land than we do to support so many citizens.”

“Half a million people?” It boggled Sandra’s mind just to think about it. “A person couldn’t possibly remember so many names. How would they know which people are trustworthy, or who they could count on in an emergency? How do so many people get along without fighting?”

“Generally they trust only family, friends and immediate neighbors,” he explained. “Everyone else is a stranger to them. As for fighting, there are plenty of conflicts between both people and nations. I’m told that at Battle Island the population actually bets on wars.”

Moratrayas dug through another workbench and came up with a map of the Raushtad Mountains. He held it up, and Sandra marveled at its complexity. Running north to south in a broad strip, the mountains were carved up into dozens of small kingdoms centered around valleys with fertile soil. Along the edges of the map were scores of independent towns, each one too poor, too small or too hard to reach for a king to bother conquering them. Sun Valley was all three.

“I expect little trouble on our journey,” he said. “I’ve traveled through the Raushtad before and everyone’s heard of me. I’ve helped some of these kingdoms, which will ease our passage. The rest know my reputation and should give us no trouble. My only concerns are monsters and an ambush by the army that attacked your town.”

“How would they know to ambush us?”

Moratrayas set the map down and continued looking for his cane. “Five of them chased you through the mountains in the dead of winter. They followed you or they deduced where you were headed. Either way, when those men don’t come back in a reasonable amount of time, the enemy will assume they were defeated and lay a trap for us.”

Sandra leaned on a workbench, careful not to upset the rubbish covering it. “How long do we have before that happens?”

Moratrayas shrugged. “It took them three weeks to get here following you. If they don’t return in another three weeks, we can expect the enemy to either send out more men or prepare for an attack on their home base. With luck we’ll defeat them and have your townspeople and sunstone back before then.”

The furry goblin asked, “How did hot stuff get a sunstone?”

“Obnoxiously put, but a valid question nonetheless,” Moratrayas said. “Sunstones are valued at anywhere from five to twenty-five thousand gold coins depending on quality, size and how much light they produce. How did a town as small as Sun Valley acquire one?”

Sandra sat down on a chair, one of the only things not covered in lab equipment, and told them her town’s history. “We didn’t always have it. Five generations ago my great, great, great grandfather left the valley to earn his fortune. Lots of men did back then. We couldn’t support many people since there wasn’t much farmland and summers are so short. Everybody figured he’d be gone for good like all the ones that left before him.”

She picked up a polished obsidian sphere and held it up for the others to see. “Twenty years later he came back with a wife, three children, the sunstone and more scars than a man should have and still live. The sunstone was four inches across and glowed like the noon sun. He wouldn’t say where he got it, just that it was for everyone in the valley and nobody would have to leave home if they didn’t want to.”

“You used its light in place of the sun to grow crops?” Moratrayas asked.

She nodded and set down the sphere. “My ancestors built a stone tower and set the sunstone in it. We covered the sunstone with an iron pot and old drapes at night or when we had visitors. But when no outsiders were around, we uncovered the sunstone and it poured out light. It extended the growing season by four weeks, enough time to guarantee a good harvest every year. We don’t get much surplus, but no one goes hungry.”

Moratrayas scribbled figures on a scrap of paper. “A stone capable of producing that much light must be worth a fortune.”

“Money doesn’t matter,” she said. Sandra looked down and tried to hold back her tears. “We’ve lost our men, the sunstone and most of our stored food. Everyone left in Sun Valley will either starve or leave home for another kingdom. There’s not a lot of honest work for widows and single women. We’d have to beg.”

“And people say we’re scum,” the furry goblin said.

The gangly goblin nodded vigorously. “We don’t do stuff like that to people. Shave their cats, sure, but that’s it.”

Moratrayas walked over to Sandra and gently lifted her head. “I know what it’s like to lose everything. That won’t happen to you and your loved ones. You’ll get them back and have the peaceful life you deserve.”

High above, the goblins giggled and made kissing noises. Without looking up, Moratrayas said, “Another sound out of any of you and there will be violence.”

Before Sandra could thank Moratrayas or throw something at the goblins, Igor stumbled into the room burdened down by a mountain of packages. “Almost done packing fuel for the clockworks.”

Moratrayas took one of the packages from him and carried it to the barge. “Igor, have you seen my spare cane?”

“You left it in the master bedroom under a pile of dirty socks and the latest issue of Mad Scientists Quarterly, the one with the flying clockwork design.” Igor set his load down in the barge and headed back for more.

“The publisher needs to change the title of that magazine,” Moratrayas complained. “It’s feeding people’s stereotypes.”

Sandra got up and followed Igor. “Is there anything I can do to help? I feel like a fifth wheel sitting around here.”

Igor smiled and pointed outside the lab. “Sure! I’ve got stacks of boxes in the main hall. Loading them will go a lot faster with help. And don’t worry, nothing bites unless you turn it on.”

“That’s…mildly comforting,” Sandra said. She followed Igor to the door, but froze in her tracks when a half completed clockwork man hanging from the ceiling waved at her. Her face turned a shade paler and she backed away. “Is that normal?”

“Normal is a relative term around here,” Igor told her.

“Normal is also overrated,” Moratrayas said. “Extraordinary is a far superior goal.”

Looking a bit ill, Sandra waved back to the clockwork and left the lab. Igor was right behind her, but Moratrayas grabbed his arm before he followed her out.
“Igor, how much food and money have you packed for the trip?”

Igor looked up and raised an eyebrow. “Let’s see, I’ve set aside enough to last us months and forty silver pieces for incidentals. You know, bribes, kickbacks, graft, campaign contributions. ”

“Triple the food supplies and cash.”

Igor didn’t question his master, just smiled and nodded. “Right, be a bit of a squeeze getting it all in, but we’ll manage. Being in close quarters with a pretty young thing is no hardship, right?”

“Don’t start,” Moratrayas said sharply. “I’ve already had enough grief from the goblins on that account.”

“Perceptive little things, aren’t they?” he said, and ducked out of the lab before Moratrayas could argue with him.

Once they were gone, Moratrayas gazed at the map of the Raushtad Mountains. “Four or five days to reach Sun Valley. Another two days will take us to the land of my birth and source of this problem.”

“Spooky,” a goblin said. “You scared to go?”

“I am mildly apprehensive. It’s said you can never go home. In my case going home is easy. Getting out alive will be the hard part.”


With Sandra’s help the armored barge was loaded in a day and a half. The sturdy little vessel reminded Sandra of the heavily loaded merchant barges that occasionally came into Sun Valley to trade. She was surprised it could still float burdened down with so many packages, kegs, casks, boxes and coffers, and she wondered if it could move carrying so much weight.

Once it was loaded, Igor turned a wheel by the steel doors in the lab, opening them to reveal a small lake connected to a wide river. It was a clear day and sunlight warmed the chill air. They boarded the barge and took it out onto the river. An engine in the back of the barge made a puttering sound and glowed green, propelling them forward in place of oars or sails.

The goblins waved goodbye from the nearest tower. “Show them who’s boss, doc!”

“We’ll keep the castle free of rats while you’re gone!” the furry goblin said. “Mmm, sweet, sweet rats.”

The barge went down the river and stopped by a dock, where twenty men waited patiently for their arrival. Moratrayas stepped onto the dock and stood before the men.

“Doctor,” a well-dressed man said formally, and took off his hat.

“Ah, Mayor Blues.” Moratrayas shook his hand and nodded to the other men. “Igor and I will be leaving for a while. I trust you and the other leading citizens of Refuge will maintain order in our absence.”

“Of course, doctor.”

“I shut down my experiments and expect no emergencies, but if one arises I grant you permission to activate the clockworks in town. They will obey your orders in lieu of my own. Use them wisely.”

“We will. Thank you, sir.”

Moratrayas tapped his cane on his palm. “Now, as to the five men who made the colossally poor choice of angering me. Hold them prisoner for another five days and then release them unarmed outside the valley. By then they shouldn’t have enough time to interfere with my mission, and carrying their wounded colleague should slow them further.”

“You don’t want them executed?” Mayor Blues asked.

“I find it best not to kill my enemies. The smart ones eventually come around to my way of thinking, and the stupid ones do the job for me.” Before he returned to the barge, Moratrayas said, “And if another candidate should come while I’m gone…”

“We will house and feed him until you return.”

He nodded. “Good man.”

With that they set out, leaving Refuge and its people far behind. The barge made good time down the river carrying Igor, Sandra, Moratrayas, twenty clockworks and Gertrude the giant clockwork covered by a tarp on the back of the barge. Sandra didn’t believe they would be strong enough to save Sun Valley alone, but if a few other heroes and wizards came then her people had a chance.

If you have enjoyed this story, the full novel is available on Amazon at:
https://www.amazon.com/Dr-Moratrayas-...

Dr. Moratrayas, Mad Scientist chapter 2

Igor led Sandra into Moratrayas’ castle. The hunchback filled the air with endless trivialities, making it hard for Sandra to focus on her surroundings. That wasn’t good. Her father had taught her when she was a child to always be aware of what was around her in case trouble came. It was a valuable lesson for someone living in mountains, where rockslides, avalanches and monsters were a constant threat.

“Of course we didn’t build the place,” Igor rambled on. “It was empty when we arrived. So was the whole valley. The old owner was still here, but in the shape he was in you’d only recognize him if you were a big fan of jigsaw puzzles. Either a catapult boulder hit him or a dragon sat on him. My money’s on the dragon.”

“I guess that happens to some people,” she replied.

Igor led her down a long hallway lined with arrow slits on the walls and murder holes on the ceiling. Most signs of invasion and war had been removed from the hallway, but there were scratches and dark stains on the walls that suggested someone once tried to force their way in and failed badly.

Doctor Moratrayas had clearly made changes to the castle since taking up residence. Glowing green spheres hung from the walls and provided light. The arrow slits and murder holes were sealed with brass and obsidian panels that hummed. Sandra was willing to bet that those panels could open to release attacks a lot nastier than arrows if someone tried to invade the castle today.

“The problem we’ve run into is space,” Igor said. “The doc needs a lot of room for his experiments. Sure, the troop barrack and dungeon are plenty big enough, but the rest of the castle was cut up into little rooms. We had to knock out a few walls for the third lab. That happens when you don’t build the place yourself.”

“So who else works here besides you and the doctor?”

“That’s it, I’m afraid. There are a few goblins running around the place, but they just watch the fun. The doc can’t find good help. That was the reason for those messages he left.”

Puzzled, she asked, “What messages?”

Igor leaned in close to her. “You don’t know? This is a first, we get a walk in and without advertising.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t follow that.”

Igor brought her to a set of iron doors. He pulled a lever hidden in the left door, and was rewarded with a series of clanking and whirring noises. The door hummed and opened up to the castle’s main hall.

The main hall was bigger than Sandra’s home back in Sun Valley, and that included the barn and chicken coop. There was a huge open space with chairs and couches along the walls, and an oak table with chairs in the center of the room. A broad staircase led up to a second floor landing and hallway. Brass chandeliers holding glowing green orbs lit the room. There were two doors on the first floor and three more on the landing. The room was bare of paintings, tapestries, statues or any other decoration.

Igor hurried up the stairs. “Wait here. The doc will be around once he’s shut down some equipment. If you see anything move, don’t panic.”

“The last thing I saw moving tried to shoot me.”

“That happens around here,” Igor said before ducking into a doorway.

Nervous, Sandra sat down on a plush couch. She felt out of place here. The main hall wasn’t decorated, but the furniture was far better than anything she had back home. Wearing patched and well-worn clothing that showed its age, she felt like a beggar at a royal ball.
There was a whirring noise as something scrambled under the oak table. Sandra edged away from it. More whirring came from up the stairs. This time she saw something scurry from one doorway to another. She didn’t get a good look at it, just enough to see it was as big as a cat, shiny, and had too many legs. A pair of small brass and obsidian creations hurried down the hallway, a veritable herd of legs and arms scrubbing the floor as they went. Their movements were quick and jerky, and they soon disappeared into a room. She’d wondered how Moratrayas kept the place running with only one assistant. But if he could build help, why hire it?

Another thought occurred to her. His creations were just cleaning the castle. That suggested one of two things. A) Moratrayas wasn’t good at setting priorities if he was using them for something so simple. That seemed unlikely. B) Moratrayas had so many of these strange creations that he didn’t mind using some for menial jobs. That seemed more likely, but was also a bit scary. How many of these monsters had he built?

“Good evening,” a man said as he stepped out onto the landing. His voice had a commanding presence to it, with a clear, crisp tone that suggested both intelligence and authority. “Allow me to formally introduce myself. I am Doctor Alberto Moratrayas.”

Sandra looked up the stairs and finally saw the man she’d come so far to meet. Moratrayas didn’t disappoint. The doctor was much younger than she’d expected, tall with an athletic build. His hair was black and cut short, and his skin was tanned. Moratrayas wore black pants, black shoes, a white shirt that buttoned on the left-hand side, and black gloves that reached up to his elbows. Black goggles rimmed with brass concealed his eyes. He carried a brass cane, but didn’t seem to need it to walk.

Moratrayas came down the hallway and descended the stairs. His eyes were locked on her the entire time, studying her intently. In stark contrast to his creations, he moved as gracefully as a cat, and with the same expression of casual interest. His steps were smooth, and he practically flowed down the stairs. He carried himself like an acrobat, or a—

“You move like a dancer,” she breathed.

Moratrayas froze in mid-step. “I what?”

Sudden realization swept over Sandra. She hadn’t just thought those words. She clapped her hands over her mouth and gasped before apologies came flowing out of her lips like a river in flood. “Oh, oh God, I can’t believe I said that! I’m sorry, I am so, so sorry, I just, I, sorry, mouth moving faster than my brain for a second! I, I didn’t mean to insult you or, oh God that sounded bad. I am so sorry!”

Moratrayas gave her a slight smile as he continued down the stairs. “Over the years I’ve been compared to many things, most of them cold blooded and covered in slime. I suppose being compared to a dancer is no insult. It is, however, a first.”

“Uh, hi, I’m Sandra Sower,” she managed to say. She rose to meet him and tried to curtsy, but Moratrayas waved his hands and smiled.

“No need for pointless formalities, Ms. Sower. Let kings and nobles bother with such things.” He pointed to the table and said, “Please, sit.”

“Thank you.” Sandra climbed into one of the large chairs while Moratrayas took the one opposite her. “I’ve been walking for so long I think my feet might fall off.”

“Indeed. I was not expecting anyone so late in the year. You must have desired to reach me very badly to brave the mountains in winter.”

Igor hurried down the stairs carrying a silver tray brimming with food. He set it down in front of them and stepped behind the doctor. Moratrayas gestured to the tray and said, “You carry little baggage, and what you do possess appears empty. Allow me to provide some minor hospitality to a guest who has traveled far to get here.”

Sandra dug into the food with an appetite that would make a wolf proud. The tray included cream soup, a chicken dish that smelled of wine, sliced apples cooked in honey, and fresh bread slathered with butter. The meal didn’t last long enough to cool. Moratrayas watched her devour the food with mild surprise while Igor smiled. Finishing the repast, she realized too late that people with money had all sorts of rules about eating and table manners, and she’d probably broken every one of them.

“Sorry, it’s just…”

“No need to apologize for enjoying the meal,”

Moratrayas said with an indulgent smile. “An empty plate is the best compliment a cook can receive. I take it you have not eaten in some time.”

Sandra looked down at the empty tray. “Three days.”

“Unfortunate. I assure you that such unpleasantness is behind you now. Those who work for me are treated with the respect they deserve and want for nothing.”

“Work for you?”

Moratrayas leaned forward and folded his hands in front of him. “I watched you overcome my traps with great interest. Few attempt what you did, and only one other succeeded. For reasons I would prefer not to discuss, she proved unsuitable for my needs. You used no special equipment, making your victory all the more impressive. I take it you are not what the unenlightened refer to as a mad scientist?”

“Uh, no,” she mumbled. “Someone told me you didn’t like to be called that.”

Moratrayas nodded. “That’s quite true. I am a scientist, but I prefer to be considered inspired. Still, it’s not important if you don’t have the same education and training as I. A woman with your determination and quick wits will be a most valuable asset.”

Sandra looked down and tried not to sound as scared as she felt. “There’s been some kind of mistake. I didn’t come for a job.”

“You didn’t?” he asked. She shook her head. “Then you know nothing of the message I left when I defeated the wizard Tadcaster.”

“Who?”

“The wizard who took over the town of Granite Peaks and ruled it with an iron fist. I defeated him and freed the inhabitants from his despotic rule. I left a message inviting others to join me here.”

“I didn’t hear anything about a wizard in Granite Peaks,” Sandra admitted. “My town doesn’t get many merchants or bards bringing news.”

Moratrayas’ expression darkened. “Didn’t hear about it? What about my eradication of the pixie plague threatening the town of Two Rocks?” Sandra shook her head again. Annoyed, Moratrayas asked, “Is it too much to ask if you heard how I defeated the ogre bandits attacking river barges on the Moderately Magnificent Talum River?”

“That one I heard about!” Sandra said excitedly. “You beat four full grown ogres single handedly and opened the river to traffic again.”

“On that occasion I also left a message inviting likeminded people to join me in the town of Refuge.”

Frightened all over again, Sandra replied, “Nobody told me that part.”

Moratrayas slapped his palms against the table. “Three times I saved towns from great danger and no one heard about it! Hundreds of people in those towns promised to tell all they met!” Moratrayas shook his head in disgust. He looked at Sandra and asked, “If you know nothing of my invitations, then what is your reason for coming here?”

Before she could answer, he threw back his head and cried out, “Merciful God in Heaven, tell me you’re not selling cookies!”

“No! No, I, I’m not,” she said and waved her hands. This was bad. He’d been expecting a helper, and she was supposed to join his cause (whatever that was) or swear fealty to him. Instead she was trying to get him involved in her problem. Fearing the response, Sandra told him the truth.

“I’m from the town of Sun Valley. Armed men attacked us a month ago. We don’t know who they were or where they came from. They looted the town of our valuables and most of our food. They carried nearly all the men away in chains. There’s no one left but women, children and old men. We need help. I, I thought that since you got rid of those ogres on the Talum River, and did that other stuff, you could help us, too.”

His reaction was not encouraging. Moratrayas’ jaw clenched and his hands balled up into fists. There was a slight tremor in his shoulders and his lips twitched. His faced darkened. Igor looked nervous and backed away from his master.

“I see,” Moratrayas said through gritted teeth. “I will consider your request.”

Desperate, Sandra grabbed his hand. “Please, I’m begging you, don’t turn me down! No one else can help. The towns around us said they couldn’t send soldiers this late in the year, and that they don’t even know where to send them. What else can we do?”

Moratrayas pulled away from her and sank back in his chair. “You will have an answer soon. Igor, show her out.”

“No, wait!”

Igor took her by the arm and led her away. “This way, please. Mind your step, the cleaning crew is coming through.”

A horde of Moratrayas’ creations swept into the main hall and cleaned everything in sight. Made of brass and obsidian with glowing green glass panels, they were as tall as Sandra and looked like spindly men. Moratrayas ignored his creations as they went about their work, and he ignored Sandra’s pleas. Stony faced, he remained in his chair.

“You can’t do this!” she shouted at the hunchback. “We need help!”

“I know,” he said compassionately. “He’s like this sometimes. If you try to force him to do something, he’ll dig in his heels and fight you every step of the way. I pity the person who toilet trained him.”

Sandra pulled away from Igor and stopped before he took her outside the castle. “Igor, please, I’m begging you! These people have my dad and brother. The ones they left behind won’t last a year without men to work the fields. I know I’m trying to get him involved in my problem, and I’ve got nothing to give in return. If Moratrayas wants followers then I’ll help him if he does this for me.”

“He won’t take an offer like that. The doc wants genuine loyalty or nothing at all.” Igor patted Sandra on the arm. “He doesn’t want to admit it, but he needs a chance like this. Saving those towns was to get the attention of other mad scientists, but they didn’t come. Some grand adventure is just what he needs to get the word out about who he is and what he’s doing.”

“Then what do we do?”

Igor took two silver coins from his belt pouch and pressed them into her hand. “Stay at the inn down in the center of town. This will cover the cost and then some. Give me a day to work on him, two at most, and he’ll come to you.”

Sandra was on the verge of tears. “These people have my family.”

“And we’ll get them back,” Igor assured her. “The doc does care. Give him a chance and he’ll prove he’s as good as gold.”

Igor opened the main gate and led her out of the castle. “I turned off the traps, so going down will be a lot easier than coming up.”

Silently, Sandra left the castle and headed down the stairs. She’d failed. She’d come all this way, endured so much, and she’d failed. Sandra saw that the streets below were empty. No doubt locals in the town had gone inside to avoid the cold. This only added to her feeling of isolation and despair.

Distracted by her experience with Moratrayas, Sandra was almost at the bottom of the stairs when she saw a group of men coming up. There were five of them, wearing chain armor and armed with swords and maces. They had thick winter clothes under their armor and backpacks heavy with supplies. Dirty and poorly shaven, they reeked of body odor and sweat. Even under moonlight, she recognized the men who’d ravaged her town.

One of them pointed a steel mace at her and grinned.
“Grab her.”


Back in the castle, Moratrayas continued to fume as his creations finished their work and went to clean another room. Whistling cheerfully, Igor returned to take the empty tray away.

“Is she gone?” Moratrayas asked sourly.

Igor sat on a chair and put his feet on the table. “She’s on her way.”

“Seven months,” he complained. “I spent seven months and half my money demonstrating what I could accomplish. I saved thousands of people, and no one knows about it.”

Moratrayas slammed his fists on the table. “I knew it would be difficult, but we didn’t get a single recruit. Not one! I was sure at least one person in my field would show up, if only for protection and free food. Even a handful of flunkies willing to follow orders would have helped. Instead I get a Girl Scout selling cookies and a woman who wants me to spend even more time and money. Where did I go wrong?”

“Be fair, doc, you knew it would be hard to get another mad scientist to come work for you,” Igor reminded him.

“Work with me,” Moratrayas corrected him, “and we’re not mad. Mildly annoyed, perhaps, but that’s it.”

“Not your fault it turned out like this,” Igor said. “There’s a lot of big news lately. The new King of the Goblins led the goblins in war and won. That’s a first, and one most people aren’t happy about. Plus the same guy destroyed the Staff of Skulls and buried the Eternal Army. Big news items like that drown out smaller stories.”

“That proves my point!” he yelled. “This Bradshaw person comes from another world, yet rallies goblins, trolls and men to his side, making the world a better place. If he can do it then why can’t I?”

Casually, Igor said, “There’s another way to make sure people hear about you.”

“I am not hiring a publicist!” Moratrayas thundered. More calmly, he added, “Especially not at the rates I was quoted.”

“Then you need to do something else to get people’s attention.”

Genuinely curious, he asked, “The woman’s offer?”

“Look at it as an opportunity,” Igor replied. He looked off into an imaginary horizon and pointed at some distant threat. “You’ll be pitting your creations against hordes of armed men, slavers or worse. Hundred to one odds, and the forces of science prevail! Cheering crowds! Dozens of beautiful women throwing themselves at you! I’ll catch as many of them as I can, good friend that I am.”

“You said that last time.” Moratrayas sank deeper into his chair.

Igor shrugged. “Reputations are like plants. They need constant attention or they wither away. One more big display could do the trick.”

Moratrayas tapped his fingers on the table. “It would eat up the last of my reserve funds, plus take me away from my research for weeks or months. And in the end what would we accomplish? We save one town or four or forty. What does it matter if they’re in danger again next year?”

“At least they get a year’s peace.”

An ear-piercing scream split the air, echoing though the castle and shocking Moratrayas out of his depression. He jumped to his feet and grabbed his cane.

“That sounded like Sandra,” Igor said.

Moratrayas raced for the castle gates. “She must have run into one of my traps.”

“I turned them off!”


The five men attacking Sandra weren’t having an easy time of it. She made it halfway up the stairs before one of them tackled her. Sandra dropped her basket when she fell, but landed next to the torch she’d dropped earlier that night. No longer burning, it was still long and fairly sturdy. She grabbed it and swung it into his face, giving him a black eye and forcing him to let go.

“Hurry!” their leader urged. “That scream will bring him coming.”

Sandra struck another man across the face with the burned out torch. He swung his sword and chopped the torch in half. A second man came at her from behind and grabbed her. Sandra stomped on his feet as hard as she could and he let go, yelping and jumping up and down. A third man went for his sword, but their leader slapped his hand away.

“We need her alive for questioning!”

Two men tackled Sandra and pinned her down. The group’s leader pulled a length of rope from his belt and bent down to tie her up. Sandra kicked the leader in the crotch, and was rewarded with a shrill cry of pain.

“Drag her out of here,” another man said. “We have to leave before Moratrayas shows up.”

“Oh, it’s much too late for that,” a menacing voice declared.

All five men looked up in shock as Moratrayas and Igor ran down the stairs. The look of pure outrage on the doctor’s face would have made a hungry dragon back away. Igor climbed off the stairs onto a small ledge while Moratrayas went straight for the men.

Still hurting from Sandra’s kick, the group’s leader gasped, “This is no business of yours.”

“No?” the doctor asked, his voice as dark as his expression. Moratrayas pressed a button on his cane.
With a hiss it extended to twice its length, becoming a brass staff with a sparking tip. “You come onto my property without permission and bearing arms, attack a petitioner, and a woman at that, and you have the gall to say it’s not my business? You, sir, have just invited yourself to a world of pain.”

The nearest man drew his sword and attacked. Moratrayas dodged the clumsy overhand swing and whirled his staff around. He jabbed the sparking tip into his attacker’s chest, releasing a bolt of electricity that ran through his body and convulsed his muscles. His attacker could only manage a strangled cry as his eyes bugged out and smoke rose up from his chest. Moratrayas pulled his cane away and allowed the smoldering man to collapse.

The remaining four men drew their swords and formed a semicircle around Moratrayas. They attacked more carefully, trying to draw him into attacking one man while a second swung at him from another direction. Moratrayas dodged one attack after another, refusing to give ground but unable to score a hit.

Clank-clank. The arm and pinchers trap rose up to attack, this time with Igor riding it. He’d folded out a small seat at the base, and opened a panel to reveal knobs and levers to control it. Whirring faster and louder, Igor directed the pincers to grab the nearest attacker and pin his arms to his chest.

“Curse you, let go of me!” the man shouted. The arm lifted him as effortlessly as it had Sandra, but under Igor’s control it carried him off the stairs and dangled him over the drop-off. “Don’t let go, don’t let go!”

“I’ll think about it,” Igor said cheerfully.

Sandra climbed back to her feet, bruised and angry. She wasn’t sure what these men were planning on doing to her, but the ideas she came up with were bad. The remaining men had turned their backs on her, proof they didn’t think she was a threat with Moratrayas on the field. That was going to cost them.

She’d already lost her knife, cloak, torch and kindling tonight. That didn’t leave her a lot to work with. She grabbed her wicker basket. Yes, this would do nicely. She stepped behind the man who’d been giving orders, the one she’d kicked in the crotch. His day was about to get even worse.

Sandra swung her basket overhand and hooked it over the leader’s head. He barely had time to say, “What the—”, before she pulled as hard as she could. Caught by surprise and pulled backwards, he fell down the stairs, crying out in pain as he rolled down the hard granite steps.

The last two men turned for a fraction of a second to see what happened to their leader, giving Moratrayas the opening he needed. He swung his staff and caught another man with the electrified tip, shocking him unconscious. The last man standing abandoned the others and ran for his life. Moratrayas whirled his staff around and struck him in the back of the knee. He stumbled and fell. The man was about to scream when Moratrayas brought the staff down on the man’s neck, shocking him as well.

Igor climbed back onto the stairs. “Nasty lot.”

“Indeed.” Moratrayas retracted the staff back down to a cane and shut off the sparks. “In three years no bandit or brigand has been fool enough to enter this valley, and approaching my castle is stupidity on the verge of being suicidal. They didn’t just want a victim to rob, nor were they after a random woman for vile purposes. They could have gotten either of those more easily by attacking someone in town. They wanted you, Ms. Sower. They must have greatly desired to stop you if they were willing to risk drawing my attention.”

“That’s not all,” she told him. Sandra pointed to one of the downed men. “These are some of the men who attacked my town.”

“Then they traveled as far as you did through the mountains in the dead of winter,” Moratrayas said. “Why did they so fear you reaching me? This is a question I demand an answer to.”

Moratrayas walked down the stairs. “I will retrieve the man Ms. Sower dealt with. Igor, Ms. Sower, bring the rest of the prisoners to the castle for questioning.”

The last man awake remained struggling in the pincers’ grip. Dangling over the drop off, he shouted, “We’ll tell you nothing!”

“To the contrary,” Moratrayas began, “you will tell me everything I need to know to find your home base, where you took Ms. Sower’s people and who’s behind this attack.”

Alarmed, Sandra asked, “You’re not going to torture them, are you?”

“Of course not,” Moratrayas replied. “Torture is for the unimaginative.”

He stopped and glanced back at Sandra. “You requested my assistance, Ms. Sower, and you have it. No one brings violence into my home.”

Leaving them behind, Moratrayas reached the bottom of the stairs. He found curious townsfolk gathered around the crippled attacker. The people muttered to one another nervously, stopping when they saw the doctor.
One of the men said, “Doctor, we heard a woman scream. When we came to investigate, we found this man. He’s hurt badly.”

“The woman is well,” he told them. “This man and four more attacked her. The others are no longer a concern.”
People in the crowd grimaced. A man asked, “They attacked her on the castle steps?”

Moratrayas picked up the wounded man and headed back for the castle. “Yes. They have annoyed me.”

“Right, we’ll start digging graves in the morning,” the man said.

“It might not come to that,” Moratrayas replied. “I’ll keep you informed.”


An hour later, Sandra, Igor and Moratrayas had securely tied the five men up in the main hall. Sandra went through the men’s backpacks, handing items to Moratrayas for him to study. The doctor sent Igor to the castle’s library for maps, although Sandra couldn’t see how they’d help.

Four of the men required medical care, which Sandra reluctantly provided. Only one man of the five was able to talk, and he proved unhelpful.

“Where are you from?” Sandra demanded. “What kingdom?”

The man glared at her and said nothing. Angry, Sandra said, “Do you have any idea how much trouble you’re in? You could be executed as bandits for what you did tonight.”

“We’re not bandits,” he snapped.

“He’s not a bandit,” Moratrayas agreed. He studied the man’s sword, turning it over in his hands and looking for marks. “This weapon was made less than a year ago. It’s human manufacture, hasn’t seen much use and is well cared for. All five men are identically armed and by the same swordsmith. The armor is good, too.”

Moratrayas tossed the sword aside and examined the man’s boots. “Bandits get weapons wherever they can, stealing more when they can get them, holding onto old weapons until they are too dull or rusted to use. To have five bandits this well armed and with the same style is nearly impossible.”

Igor walked back into the room with a bundle of papers under his arms. “Got the maps you wanted,” he explained before dumping his load on the table. “This is everything we have on the Raushtad Mountains and surrounding kingdoms. Planning a holiday get away?”

“Nothing so dull. The men’s boots are new, too, hobnailed, leather, no fur trim. I recognize the style. Representatives from the Peck Merchant House came this spring trying to peddle the same type as mountaineering boots. Peck is new to the region and hasn’t reached the north of the Raushtad yet. You’re not from far away.”

Moratrayas turned his attention to Sandra. “Describe the attack on your town. Leave out no detail.”

“They came during the morning,” she said. “It wasn’t even dawn when ten river barges appeared outside town. We thought they might be merchants late getting out of the mountains before winter. When the barges came to shore, armed men rushed out and attacked.”

“How many?”

“Three hundred, maybe four.” Sandra shuddered at the memory of that day. “They used clubs and nets on us. They ran us down and beat the men viciously, then tied them up and took them back to the barges. A few people got to their homes in time and barred themselves inside. Those wretches set the houses on fire to flush them out. They took any man old enough to do work and carried them off. Then they took our money and half our food supplies. Then they took our sunstone.”

Moratrayas’ head snapped up from the backpack he was searching. “You had a sunstone?”

“It’s why we’re called Sun Valley. We’ve had it for five generations, using its light to speed up the growth of our crops.”

“Yes, they are most valuable,” Moratrayas mused. “Continue.”

“There’s not much more to say. Once they had what they wanted, they got back in the barges and left. We begged them for mercy, promised them anything they wanted if they would just let our people go. They laughed and said there was nothing left worth taking. I don’t know why they didn’t take the rest of us, too, or take over the town. Farmland isn’t easy to come by in the mountains, and ours is worth having.”

Moratrayas checked the maps Igor brought in. “That narrows down our enemy’s location even more. River barges are large vessels. Most rivers are too rough or narrow for them to travel.” He took a wineskin from the man’s backpack and handed it to Igor. “You know wines better than I.”

Igor took a swig of wine and swished it around in his mouth before he swallowed. “It’s sour and smells like the wine barrel it came from had a dead rat in it. Must be from Prenton Vineyards.” He took another swig.

“How can you drink that?” Sandra asked.

“It’s an acquired taste,” Igor said, and drank the wineskin in one long pull. “If that’s the only wine you can acquire, you drink it.”

Moratrayas took the largest map of the region and began making circles with ink and quill. “Prenton Vineyard only sells locally and to people too poor to buy better wine. That narrows our search down to the middle section of the Raushtad.”

The prisoner began to sweat. “We stole the wine. We broke into a farmhouse and took it. It was the only wine they had.”

“Keep talking and I’ll gag you,” Moratrayas warned him. He checked the man’s hands next. “You’re new at this.”

Sandra peered over his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“He has no scars. A man who fights for a living gets hurt in battles and training accidents. The other men are the same. Their faces and hands are unblemished except from the injuries we inflicted today.”
Moratrayas went through their pockets next. He took out a collection of copper coins and dumped them on the table.

“Hey, that’s mine!” the prisoner shouted. “I earned it!”

“Igor, if you please?” Moratrayas asked. Igor stuffed an old sock in the prisoner’s mouth to shut him up. “Thank you. Most of the coinage is minted locally. I see a few from Granite Peaks, with their particularly stupid emblem of a frightened woodchuck. But these others are new to me, and he has a lot of them. They have a fist imprinted on one side and a starburst on the other.”

“I’ve seen them before,” Sandra told him.

“You have? Where?”

“Back at home. Merchants have been passing them around for two years. We hadn’t seen them before that, and suddenly a lot of them are going around. The metal’s not too pure, but we have to take what we can get.”

Moratrayas rubbed his chin. “Interesting. Who would be minting new coins?”
With Sandra and Igor watching, Moratrayas drew one circle after another on the map. Each circle was smaller than the one before and inside the larger one. “Not too far north based on the boots, closer to the middle of the mountains based on the wine…yes. There’s still a lot of unanswered questions, but based off the evidence our enemies have provided and which rivers are large enough for their boats to pass, the attack against your village came from the Kingdom of Stone Heart. That’s unfortunate.”

Curious, Sandra asked, “Why?”

“I was born there.”

Dr. Moratrayas, Mad Scientist

In the Milky Way Galaxy is a strange world called Earth that has won the ‘Most Confusing Civilization’ award every year for the last twenty. Every year on Earth, buildings get taller, computers get smaller and lawyers are produced in record numbers (despite numerous intergalactic laws against the practice). These things are considered progress. Earth is home to over seven billion people, most of who don’t get along with each other. Nations are judged great only if they can completely destroy at least one neighboring country. Bonus points are awarded if they can reduce entire cities to radioactive dust.

Civilized beings avoid Earth.

There are equally strange worlds in the Milky Way. Not far from Earth is the world of Other Place, a land of magic and mystery. Many intelligent races on Other Place are found nowhere else, for which most people are grateful. Earth and Other Place share the dubious distinction of having lots of people who hate one another. In place of the tanks and nuclear weapons Earth favors, Other Place natives employ magic wands, terrible beasts, golems of frightening strength and an astounding number of lawyers (more proof that anti-lawyer laws are not being sufficiently enforced).

Other Place contains countless powerful individuals. Ruthless kings command armies in the thousands and pious holy men call upon their God for aid. Cunning wizards bend and twist energy to their needs, while mighty heroes battle hordes of enemies single handedly and win. Merchant princes fight just as fiercely using gold instead of swords and spells, and mad scientists perform experiments too insane to be imagined. Every so often a person is born destined to do great deeds. This sounds exciting, but usually consists of the poor fool trying desperately not to be killed. For better or for worse, these are the people who control the fate of nations.

But for every one of these great people who are the stuff of legends, there are thousands more with no power at all. Commoners, peasants, the little people, call them what you will, but when mighty deeds are being performed, they’re the ones most likely to get crushed underfoot. They long to be left alone, for kings to be content with wine and tournaments, for holy men to lead prayers and not crusades, and for wizards to build their stone towers and stay in them. Let merchant princes count their vast fortunes and mad scientists stay far away. Commoners want nothing to do with them. For these people a boring life is a beautiful one, and they understand more than most the meaning of the Chinese curse, ‘may you live in interesting times.’

Needless to say, few get their wish. This includes Sandra Sower.


“Keep walking,” Sandra told herself. “Almost there.”

Sandra trudged in the dark through ankle deep snow, trying very hard not to slip as she worked her way around a boulder on the trail. She’d been walking for a long time, and the boulders, pitfalls and fallen trees blocking the trail made her journey that much longer. Luckily she was young and in good health. This trip would have killed the older women in her town.

Sandra was twenty years old, tall and slender, her muscles strong from years of hard work. Her brown hair was bundled under a fur hat and wool scarf, and her brown eyes barely showed at all. She wore a long skirt and blouse, both gray, coat, mittens, felt boots, and wool wrappings tightly wound around both legs. A gray cloak covered her back and head.

She had little besides these clothes. Sandra carried an empty wicker basket and an equally empty purse. She considered dumping them to lighten her load, but her peasant upbringing wouldn’t allow such waste. Of more use, she had a bundle of dry sticks for kindling tied to her back, a steel knife strapped to her leg and a lit torch in her right hand.

The land around her was bleak and cold. The Raushtad Mountains were not a healthy place to travel through during summer and infinitely worse in winter. Such high mountains blocked out the sun for most of the day, providing even fewer sunlit hours than normal. The few trails going through the mountains were narrow and poorly maintained, crowded on both sides by tall evergreen trees. Cold wind whipped between the mountains and could blow snow into drifts as high as a wagon.

Sandra was currently traveling toward two nameless peaks and the valley between them. She was tempted to stop for the night and avoid the chance she might trip on a rock or branch buried under the snow, but continued in spite of the risk. She’d already lost eight days to detours around closed trails and digging her way through deep snow. Every delay put her people in peril.

“Just a bit farther.”

There was another reason she kept moving. People in the last inhabited valley she’d traveled through had told her she was close to her destination. If they were right, the man she needed to find was only a few miles away. With luck she could reach him by morning and beg for help…and for food.

Sandra stumbled in the snow. Cursing her bad luck, she struggled to her feet and brushed off her skirt. She pulled the scarf off her mouth and ate some of the snow. Despite the cold, she was overheating in her warm clothes and from the heat generated by walking. The snow cooled her down.

Exhausted, Sandra stopped marching and caught her breath. She was in the shadow cast by a tall and foreboding granite peak. The trail was bracketed by pine trees as tall as church steeples and without branches for the first forty feet. That was unfortunate, since she could have broken off low branches for firewood. The sky overhead was clear and stars twinkled around a full moon. Moonlight reflected off the snow and provided enough light to travel by. She could probably get by without her torch, but fire was good for warding off hungry animals.

“Hi there!” a rough voice said behind her. Sandra spun around and came face to face with a werewolf. Taller than her and bulging with muscles, the werewolf had a luxurious coat of gold fur that almost sparkled under the light of her torch. The monster stepped out of a grove of trees behind her and had both clawed hands outstretched, its mouth open revealing long teeth dripping with drool.

Sandra screamed. She stumbled away from it and swung her torch in front of her. The werewolf backed away and lowered its arms, its eyes opening wide in surprise.

“Hey, wait a minute!” the werewolf protested. It looked confused for a moment before slapping itself across the muzzle. “Ah man, I did it again! I’m sorry. I keep forgetting what I look like this time of the month.”

Sandra stopped screaming. “What?”

The werewolf backed up and raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. “I’m really sorry. This has been going on for so long you’d think I’d have learned my lesson by now. Smiling doesn’t look friendly when you’ve got teeth like these!”

Sandra kept her distance but stopped threatening the werewolf with her torch. Storytellers told many tales about young women meeting werewolves at night, and none of those stories ended well for the women involved. But the monster was talking, and that was a good sign. Once she managed to stop staring at those terrible jaws, she noticed something odd about it.

“You’re wearing pants?” she asked. Sure enough, the werewolf was wearing leather pants with an opening for its tail.

“Yeah, I kind of have to,” the werewolf said sheepishly. “One time I changed back before I got home in the morning. Let me tell you, really embarrassing! I made these pants so there wouldn’t be more mistakes like that. I overheat in them, but it beats streaking the whole town again.”

Some werewolves were ravenous monsters, but Sandra had heard that not all were dangerous. Cautiously, she asked, “You weren’t born a werewolf, were you?”

The werewolf shook its head. “I got bit a year ago, and the next full moon this happened. It’s been a big adjustment, but my family’s been real supportive. Oh hey, where are my manners? The name’s Keith Sunter. Pleased to meet you.”

Sandra gingerly shook the werewolf’s hand while keeping her torch at the ready. Silver was what really hurt werewolves, but she hoped fire would hold it back if it got aggressive. She didn’t bother drawing her knife.

Keith the werewolf didn’t seem to notice the suspicious looks she gave him. “Surprised to see anyone out this late. I come out here so I can be alone. Can’t scare anyone if there’s no one around. Hey, I don’t think I’ve seen you in these parts before.”

“I’m passing through.”

“Tough time to be traveling,” Keith said. “My family would love to help if you need a place to spend the night. Lots of things going on at home you might like. Say, we’re having a tent revival this week if you’re interested.”

“Uh, it’s really not a good time for that.”

“Never a bad time to have the Good Lord in your life,” Keith countered.

Sandra stammered, trying to find a way to end this conversation. “I appreciate the offer, it’s just I’m in a real hurry. I need to find a man named Doctor Alberto Moratrayas.”

Keith smiled, baring teeth that could rip a man in half. His ears perked up and his tail wagged. “That’s easy! The doc lives in my town.”

“He does? Where’s the town?” she demanded.

Keith pointed a clawed finger up the trail. “Follow the trail for the next two miles until it comes to a valley. There’s a town there called Refuge and a castle called Fortress X. The doc lives up there.”

“Thank you! You don’t know how much you’ve helped me,” Sandra cried. She shook the werewolf’s hand again and headed up the road.

“Safe trip!” Keith called after her. His tail wagged as he watched her trudge through the snow. “What a sweet girl.”

Keith continued down the road in the direction Sandra had come from. Whistling cheerfully to himself, he set out for another night of exploring the forest around his hometown. Minutes later his keen hearing picked up the sound of men coming up the road. Smiling, he introduced himself.

“Hi there! My name’s—” Wham! A steel mace came down on Keith’s head and knocked him out. He hit the ground in front of his attacker.

“Is it alive?” a man asked.

“Of course it is,” another replied. “Mace isn’t silver, and that’s what kills werewolves. We just stunned it. Anybody got silver on them?”

There was a pause as the men went through their pockets. One of them offered, “I got a lead fishing weight.”

The group’s leader bit back a harsh and well-deserved stream of insults, instead saying, “It’s not the same thing. We’ll have to leave the werewolf. It ain’t who we’re after, anyway.”


Not far ahead, Sandra hurried through the snow. She climbed up a rise in the trail and came onto the top of a hill. She could see light ahead of her. The air was heavy with the scent of wood smoke and cooking food. Food! Sandra’s stomach grumbled at the smell, but she pushed on. She forced her way through a cluster of pine trees growing around a wide river, and then stopped to take in the sight before her.

Filling the valley ahead of her was a prosperous town of perhaps two thousand people, far larger than Sun Valley. The houses were made of granite and were well built. Smoke poured from chimneys and light issued from glass windows. Outside the town were empty fields and orchards harvested long ago, and beyond those were brick lined terraces cut into the mountains and filled with more barren cropland. Sandra saw people walking through cobblestone streets, all of them well fed and happy like she used to be.

Scattered around the town were stranger things that showed all too clearly that this town was the possession of Doctor Moratrayas. An ornate clock tower thirty feet tall dominated the center of town, its four faces showing the time as 7:19. Most cities didn’t have such an extravagance, much less a town this size. At each street corner stood a steel post with a street sign and a black orb on top. Sandra saw five black boxes scattered across the town, big enough to fit a man inside and attached to the ground by thick cables. The boxes hummed and occasionally sparked. Something flew over her head, buzzing as it headed for a castle dug into the side of a mountain.

Sandra walked into the town. People saw her and waved. Some wished her a good day. They laughed and smiled at each other. She’d been away from home and a normal life for so long that this felt alien.

“You look lost, young lady,” a plump, prosperous man said to her. He looked like he was in his fifties and wore warm fur clothing.

“Actually, I think I’m right where I need to be. Does a man named Doctor Alberto Moratrayas live here? I was told he might be in the castle.”

The man nodded. “He lives here, all right. I’ll take you to him.”

The man smiled and led her through the streets. Seeing so many warm homes with cooking fires burning in them made her want to ask (correction, beg) for something to eat. Sandra had abandoned her pride a month ago and no longer minded asking for help. But any delay was too much when she was this close to her goal. Food could wait.

Sandra pointed at a six-inch diameter black tube running through the snow and connecting to a house. “What’s that for?”

“Those tubes pump hot water to our homes,” the man explained.

Still staring at it, she asked, “But how?”

The man shrugged. “I don’t know how it works. None of us do. The doctor put them in and fixes them when they break. He keeps saying it’s not magic, but if there’s a difference, I don’t know what it is.”

They approached one of the large black boxes, and to Sandra’s amazement the box turned to face her as she walked by. “I’m almost afraid to ask what that does.”

“No idea, but my dog got a nasty shock when he peed on it. I’d keep my distance if I were you.”

“Do you know the doctor? I mean, have you met him, talked with him?” she asked. She didn’t know much about Moratrayas and needed all the advice she could get.

“I’ve spoken to him, but no one truly knows the doctor,” the man said. “What goes on in his mind is a mystery. We live well and he’s a better ruler than any of us had before coming here, so we ignore the little things.”

“Little things like what?” she asked.

On cue, the highest tower on the castle roared like a dragon. Something as big as a wine barrel flew from the tower so fast Sandra didn’t get a good look at it except that it was shiny. It slammed into the opposite mountain and created a deafening boom that echoed through the valley.

“That would be a good example,” the man said, unperturbed by the display. No one else on the street seemed to care, either. “We find it best not to ask what he’s doing. When we do ask, if we’re lucky he won’t say.”

Sandra hesitated before asking, “And if you’re not lucky?”

“He spends hours trying to explain it to us, and nobody understands him.”

“I guess that happens a lot with mad scientists.”

The man stopped in his tracks. “Don’t call him that. Ever.”

“I…I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude to him or you or oh God, is that an insult with him?”

“Something like that. Call him doctor or sir.”

The man led her to a set of granite steps leading up to the castle. There had to be a thousand steps, wide enough for ten men to go up at once and swept clean of snow. At the top of the stairs was a castle.

Sandra had only seen castles in books before now. They were tall and bright and pretty, with soaring towers and pointy rooftops flying pennants. This castle was dark and ugly. It seemed to have grown out of the mountain, a squat thing with dirty walls and narrow windows. Its towers were thick and short. Its gate was closed and made of wood bound with iron bands. What little light came from the dark castle was tinged green.

“Here we are,” the man said. “You’re lucky he’s in. Sometimes he’s gone for weeks at a time doing God only knows what. He’ll see you if you can get up the stairs.”

“If I can get up the stairs? What’s that mean?” Sandra asked.

“You’ll see for yourself.”

That didn’t sound good. “I know you’ve already helped me, but could you introduce me? It would look better if I show up with someone he knows than if I come alone.”

“Not a chance,” the man said firmly. “We don’t go to the castle unless we’re invited. The doctor doesn’t have many rules, but he was clear on that point. He said it’s not always safe up there with his experiments, and we believe him.”

“But—”

The man sighed. “I can tell this is important to you, but I can’t help. For your good and mine, you’ll have to do on your own.”

The man tipped his hat to her and headed back to the town, leaving Sandra alone at the foot of the stairs. She looked up at the gate high above her and shuddered. Something about the way the man had spoke made her think going up those stairs would be a lot harder than it looked.

Sandra hesitated. Up in that castle was Doctor Moratrayas. He was a mad scientist, regardless of what he liked to be called, and stories about him circulated even in places as isolated as Sun Valley. Rumor was he built life from metal and stone, fearsome things small as a cat or as big as an ox.

Moratrayas was said to be far more frightening than his creations. Ill-mannered, vicious, possibly insane, the doctor had a reputation as a man who seldom started fights but always ended them, usually in the most violent way possible. Sandra should be doing everything in her power to avoid him, and that’s what she wanted most of all. But there was a chance, be it however so slim, that his power could save her people, so she went on.

“Great. I’m heading to a big scary castle with a mad scientist to ask for help,” Sandra said as she started up the stairs. She talked to herself a lot, more so since she began her long trip alone through the mountains. “Jennet Foster gets to go ask the great hero Julius Craton for help, the little minx. I’m probably going to get dropped into a vat of acid while she’s looking for a genuine hero…who’s tall and handsome and single and brave and courteous and loyal and single and I’m stuck here!”

Sandra waved her arms toward the castle. “I’m heading toward a mad scientist’s castle! There are lots of stories about what happens to young girls that meet mad scientists. They don’t end well for the girls. Come to think of it, just about all the girls in stories end up in trouble. I bet that wouldn’t happen if there were more women storytellers.”

She grumbled and kept climbing the staircase. “This is mother’s fault. ‘We need help’, she says. ‘I’m sending you because I trust you’, she says. Who does she send her oldest daughter to get? Doctor Alberto ‘the mad tailor’ Moratrayas. I’m going after a super scary mad scientist who beats up ogres for a hobby. Thanks a lot, mom!”

Still fuming over the injustice of it all, Sandra climbed the stairs in silence for the next few seconds. Tired, hungry and upset, it took her longer than normal to notice she wasn’t getting any closer to the castle.

“What the…hey!” Sandra looked down and saw the stairs she was climbing moving down toward the town. The stairs moved so smoothly and silently she barely noticed she was actually going backwards. She ran up the stairs, but they sped up so she still wasn’t making any progress. Sandra collapsed in exhaustion and was carried smoothly back to the bottom.

“That’s a lousy trick!” she shouted at the castle. If anyone heard her, they didn’t reply. It didn’t take long to figure out what was going on. Wizards used tamed griffins or unicorns to guard their estates from intruders. But Moratrayas was a mad scientist. He’d build some crazy thing made of steel and bottled lightning to keep people away. Angry, she shouted, “Maybe that keeps salesmen out, but you need way better than that for me!”

Sandra studied the moving stairs. They sank into the ground at the base of the staircase. The stairs were motionless when she wasn’t on them, but if she climbed higher than the third stair they went backwards. The moving stairs were a different color than the ones farther up the staircase. It looked like she’d have to get past fifty feet of moving stairs before she could go on.
The sides of the staircase were polished smooth, leaving nothing to grip if she tried to climb around the stairs. To either side of the staircase was a huge drop off. Sandra was a good climber, her getting through the mountains proved that, but a climb this difficult required tools and rope she didn’t have.

“Can’t go around, can’t go under, can’t climb up,” she mused. “So, what does that leave?” Sandra snapped her fingers. “Got it!”

She pulled out the knife strapped to her leg and poked around the edge of the moving stairs. There was a slight gap at the base of the steps, which she would have seen earlier if there was better lighting. The thin knife fit in the gap, but no matter how far she pushed, the knife didn’t press against anything. It went in up to the hilt and she still didn’t feel any resistance.

“Come on, there’s got to be something here I can cut.” She pressed the knife in as hard as she could, but it didn’t budge. Suddenly an idea came to her. Sandra left the knife in place and climbed the stairs. One step, two steps, three steps, and like magic the stairs began their descent, but this time there was a thud followed by a whirring noise. The stairs lurched and stopped. Sandra climbed higher. Four steps, five steps, six steps. The stairs made a grinding sound, but with the knife jammed in they couldn’t go down.

“Got you!” she said with a smile. Defeating the moving stairs meant leaving her knife behind to keep them jammed. Being close to poverty her whole life made Sandra hate waste in any form, but if losing her knife was the price she paid to save her town then she could live with it.

“That wasn’t so bad,” she said as she continued onwards. Once she was past the moving stairs she heard the grinding and whirring stop. Apparently the good doctor wasn’t going to waste time on a trap that was already defeated. “Yeah, that wasn’t so bad. If Moratrayas fights ogres and wins then he’s got to have a lot meaner tricks up his sleeve than that.”

Sandra continued up more cautiously. She didn’t see anyone by the castle, but if the moving stairs had turned off then someone was watching her, probably Moratrayas. With his first trap disabled he’d likely spring another. That trap was at the bottom of the stairs. If she were placing these obstacles, Sandra would put the next one near the middle.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to be bothered,” she said aloud. “Maybe he’s doing something dangerous, and if I break his concentration he’ll screw it up. Or he might be with a lady lab ‘assistant’. I’ve heard about them. Yeah, that’d be great. I break in his house, asking for help, and he’s alone with a pretty girl whose chest measurements are bigger than her IQ. That’s a great way to make a good first impression.”

The next trap announced its presence with a whirring noise and a clank-clank. Huge pincers two feet across lifted up from the left of the staircase to menace Sandra. She backed away and the pincers came closer. The contraption was made of brass and what looked like polished obsidian, and contained glass panels with some strange glowing green fluid moving inside. The pincers hung off an arm made of the same mismatched materials. The pincers snapped open and closed, clank-clank.

Sandra was much closer to the castle now. She shouted, “Doctor Moratrayas! I need to talk to you! It’s very important! Please turn this thing off!”

Clank-clank. The pincers snapped again. The arm extended and carried the whirring menace closer. If Moratrayas heard her he wasn’t answering. “Fine,” she said. “We do this the hard way.”

Sandra didn’t approach the pincers, fearful of how much damage it could do if it grabbed her. The arm carrying it was long enough to reach the entire width of the stairs and a height of at least twenty steps above her. That was a lot of space to cover for just one weapon, and it moved slowly.

Sandra walked casually to the left edge of the stairs. The pincers and arm followed. Once she and it were as far over as they both could get, she ran to the right end of the stairs as fast as she could and climbed up.

The whirring noise sped up until it sounded like a swarm of angry bees. Moving as fast as a running deer, the arm swung after her. The pincers opened wide, and before she could dodge they closed around her waist. Sandra struggled to pull them apart, but they wouldn’t budge. The arm and pincers lifted her effortlessly and set her back down where she’d started. The pincers opened and freed her, then waved in front of her face like a mother scolding a naughty child.

“That’s just rude!” she told it. The arm and pincers hung there and whirred away. Clank-clank. “I already heard that line tonight.”

Sandra tapped her hand against her wicker basket. “Too fast to go around, too strong to force back, so what does that leave?”

If she jammed the moving stairs, she might be able to do the same with this trap. But with what? The basket was too flimsy. The pincers would crush it and go after her again. She had a bundle of kindling. Unlike her knife it was replaceable, so losing it didn’t bother her. The bundle was tied together with a strip of leather. She remembered a fable that mentioned sticks together being stronger than if they were alone. Would that be strong enough so the pincers couldn’t break it?

Sandra pulled the bundle off her back and held it in front of her. The pincers waited patiently for her next attempt to get around them. Clank-clank. This time she headed straight for them. The whirring noise sped up again and the pincers opened wide. She jammed the bundle into the pincers and ran around it.

The pincers tried to close on the bundle and crush it. As Sandra ran by she heard the kindling snap and break, but there were so many sticks that when one broke there were others holding the pincers open. The arm swung left to right, then up and down. It slammed against the stairs and dislodged the broken bundle of kindling.

Sandra kept running. The arm swung around and grabbed for her again. She was up another fifteen steps when the pincers grabbed her by the ankles. She tripped and fell, dropping her torch. The pincers were built to grab a person around the waist or chest. Faced with something as small as Sandra’s feet, they couldn’t close tightly enough to get a good grip. She slipped through the pincers and scrambled up the stairs out of its reach.

Clank-clank. The arm retracted off the stairs, lowering it and the pincers from view, and the whirring noise died away. Her torch was still burning but had rolled down next to where the pincers had been. Retrieving it risked another attack, so she left it behind.

“I’m two for two!” Sandra shouted at the castle. “Can we stop this and talk?”

Again there was no answer. Sandra had met people who assumed she was as dumb as a stump because she was a woman. Could that be the reason she was getting so much trouble? After all, mad scientists had a reputation for being stubborn and proud. Frowning, Sandra asked, “Is this because I’m a girl? You’re supposed to be a genius. Aren’t you above that kind of thinking?”

There was a crackling noise from the castle, followed by a man’s booming voice. “Gender bias has nothing to do with your situation. You face the same tests as those before you. Should I show you favor because you are of the fairer sex?”

“You should hear me out! I don’t have time for this!” She stopped shouting and rubbed her eyes. Arguing with him might make him angry enough to refuse her. “I just, can we talk this over like adults?”

“Of course. I am nothing if not reasonable. You simply have to reach the castle and you will have my full attention. You’ve dealt with the first two obstacles. The third should prove no harder. To turn it off now would cheapen your achievement, and I have no desire to insult you in that fashion.”

Sandra stared at the castle and its unseen owner. “Oh yeah, putting me through all this is a real honor.”

She headed up again. The voice had said there was a third trap. It would probably be right in front of the door. Sandra wondered what else he would throw at her.

“Julius Craton wouldn’t test me,” she said bitterly. “Tibolt Broadbeard wouldn’t test me. Ask them for help and they say, ‘sure, we’d love to.’ I get sent to a man who sets lethal traps for visitors.”

The booming voice said, “None of my traps are lethal.”

“Not for you they’re not,” she muttered, and rubbed her side where the pincers had grabbed her.

Ten steps from the top of the stairs, Sandra heard a whirring noise. She dropped to her knees and prepared for the worst. A cylinder two feet wide and three feet tall rose up from the stair in front of her. Startled, she stepped back. The cylinder was made of brass and obsidian, just like the arm and pincers. Glass panels lit up with the now familiar green glow. A panel opened on the side of the cylinder, displaying row after row of white tipped darts.

“Hey!” Sandra ran back down the stairs while the trap fired darts at her. The cylinder shot them out faster than any man could throw. Most missed her or hit her basket. Two darts stuck in her cloak, damaging the material but nothing else. “You said nothing here was lethal!”

“The poison is merely paralytic,” the booming voice said.
Sandra pulled a dart from her cloak. “Poison? That’s not fair!”

The cylinder stopped firing once Sandra was fifteen steps away. Breathing hard, she studied the devise. It had fired at least twenty darts, but as she watched more darts slid into place in the panel. How many more were there? Maybe she could trick it into firing all its darts. But it only needed to hit her once to poison her and win. She didn’t like those odds.

Sandra plucked the darts out of her basket. They were stuck in good and it took some effort to pull them out. The darts didn’t hit with enough force to punch all the way through. It didn’t take much to stop them. She looked at the tiny holes in her cloak.

“I’m going to regret this.” Sandra took off her cloak and held it in front of her. Cautiously, she advanced on the cylinder. It began firing again once she was close enough. Darts flew out three a second and hit her thick cloak. Dozens of darts stuck halfway through the material. The cylinder ran out of darts, reloaded from some inner reserve and fired again. Sandra advanced steadily, keeping her entire body behind her cloak. She finally reached the cylinder and jammed her tattered cloak into the dart panel. The cylinder whirred in protest, but couldn’t fire or even sink back into the staircase.

“That’s three,” she said. “You owe me a cloak.”
Sandra climbed up the last few steps and approached the castle’s huge doors. She grabbed an enormous iron ring hanging from the doors and swung it hard. The boom it made echoed throughout the valley. She waited a moment, and when the doors remained closed she swung the ring again.

A small door opened to the left of the ring, and a man poked his head out. He was nothing to look at, with beady eyes, a pronounced chin and a nose like a hawk. The man wore a billowing cloak with a hood. He eyed her suspiciously before speaking.

“We’re not buying cookies.” He didn’t sound like the booming voice Sandra had heard earlier.

Puzzled, she said, “I’m not selling cookies.”

“We’re not buying candy, either.”

“Aren’t you supposed to open the door?” she asked.

The man shrugged. “I don’t have to. Seriously, we don’t want cookies, candy, tins of popcorn or peanut brittle. Mind you, a nice sponge cake would hit the spot right about now.”

Exasperated, Sandra demanded, “Why do you think I’d come all this way to sell you treats?”

“In the last four months only one other person has gotten this far, and she was a Girl Scout.”

Sandra pointed at the brass cylinder. “A Girl Scout got through that?”

“Surprised us, too. Apparently there was a quota she had to meet, and she wasn’t taking no for an answer. Doc was very upset by the whole thing.”

“I’m a little old to be a Girl Scout.”

The man shrugged. “Some folks advance slower than most.”

Sandra put her hands on her hips and scowled. “Listen to me very closely. I spent three weeks getting here, and let me tell you, it wasn’t fun. I got through your master’s traps, and it cost me a perfectly good knife and my only cloak. I really need to see him, because if I don’t a lot of people I care for are going to die. Please open the door.”

The man twisted his lips and looked to his left like he was considering her position. “Hmm, well, okay.”
The man closed the little door and slowly swung the larger one open. Light and warm air spilled out from inside the castle. Sandra saw the rest of the man she’d been speaking to. He was a foot shorter than she was and his right shoulder had a pronounced hunch.
Smiling, he shook her hand and beckoned for her to come inside.

“I’m Igor, professional lab assistant. Come on, the doc is waiting for you in the main hall. I can’t promise you’ll get what you want, but the doc will listen to you. He’s impressed. You beat the Girl Scout’s time by four minutes.”

Zombie Apocalypse, a Comedy

The worst has come to pass as zombies swarm the world in overwhelming numbers. No one knew how this came to pass. No one knew where it would end. No one knew why the military didn’t drop bombs and artillery shells on crowds of zombies that couldn’t move fast enough to catch a turtle with asthma. But somehow the greatest military powers in the history of mankind had been left helpless, forcing citizens to band together for mutual survival. And so a small band of survivors gathered in a warehouse in Phoenix Arizona to plan their next move.

The crowd murmured in brief, worried conversations as their leader Gus stepped in front of them. He waved to get their attention as he announced in a bland, monotone voice, “People, please, let’s get things moving. I understand you’re all concerned, but we can get through this disaster with adequate planning and a healthy respect for authority.”

Silence fell across the room, interrupted only by the sounds of zombies moaning in the distance and the air conditioner going full blast to combat Phoenix’s intense summer heat. Gus took a moment to survey his band of survivors. Twenty men and women armed with only steel rods and baseball bats, not an inspiring sight.

If these frightened people were hoping for a great leader, a George Washington or Winston Churchill to rise up and lead them in this time of crisis, they weren’t getting one. Gus was middle aged, balding and dressed like the middle manager he was. He had the charisma of a boiled ham and the blank stare of a deer caught in the headlights. He was, however, the only person who’d volunteered to lead.

“Now I’ve had a chance to speak with each of you one on one, and we have some issues to address. The first is that none of you have combat training. There are also no doctors, nurses, firemen, engineers or policemen. You are, in short, losers. I’m not sure how none of you ever developed useful life skills, but you didn’t, and we’re going to have to deal with that.”

“I’m a yoga instructor,” a woman said.

“That’s lovely,” Gus replied in a deadpan voice. “This means we’re going to suffer needlessly high casualties over the next few days. But do not despair. Georgiou, that’s the gentleman in the back, is a skilled hair care technician, so you’ll look your best before being eaten.”

“Hello,” Georgiou said. A few people waved at him.

“We’re going to have to delegate responsibilities to members of the group,” Gus continued. “I need one or two people to go betray the others in an effort to guarantee their own survival. I see a lot of hands going up, so I’m meet with you in private. I also need at least one person to go mad and run off, then be surrounded and eaten. This job is best handled by a person with deep religious beliefs, but they can’t be Jewish.”

“Why not?” a woman asked.

“Because that would get us labeled as anti-Semitic.” Gus stopped talking when a man walked up to him and handed him a slip of paper. There was a whispered conversation before the man returned to the group. “Everyone, this is Stan.”

“Hi, Stan,” the group said.

“Stan tells me that one of you put up a suggestion box, and someone has made a suggestion.” Gus read the paper, his expression blank. “Fill alley with brush and scrap lumber, coat with oil, lure in zombies and ignite brush, burning zombies. No. That’s not the way we do things in this kind of situation. If we can get back to the matter at hand, I need one or more women here to be lesbians.”

A woman raised her hand. “Only one to three percent of the population is gay. Statistically speaking, there shouldn’t be a lesbian in a group this small.”

“And she’ll be killed and eaten,” Gus continued. “We’ll also need a needlessly promiscuous woman in the group, who will also be eaten.”

“Dammit!” a man yelled.

Gus wasn’t done. “The group must break up into competing factions until it separates into two smaller and easily defeatable groups. It would be ideal if the groups fight and kill one another, but that’s a tall order. I’ll settle for insults and racial slurs.”

Stan walked up to Gus and handed over another slip of paper. Gus frowned as he read it. “Syphon gas from 18 wheel trucks, put gas into steamroller or bulldozer, run over zombies. No. I don’t think you’re taking this seriously. We have thousands of zombies in Phoenix, and while they are slower, weaker and dumber than you are, not sure how the last one is possible, but they remain a threat. If we just go off willy-nilly then the whole group is going to get eaten and not just eighty percent.”

“Wait, we’re going to lose that many?” another man asked.

“The average rate of survival for groups this incompetent in zombie outbreaks is traditionally low,” Gus explained. “Most losses are from people being surprised by zombies hiding in cars, behind locked doors or in shallow water, or by people being surrounded by overwhelming numbers of zombies.”

Stan handed Gus a third slip of paper. Gus looked annoyed as he held it up for the group to see. “Seal bottom floor of high rise office building, wait for zombies to surround building, throw furniture from fifth floor or higher and crush zombies below. I’m not sure who thought this was a good idea.”

“That one’s mine,” a younger man said. “Hi, I’m Tony. I just figured if you took a sixty pound recliner chair and let it drop five stories, it would smash anything it hit, and a big building would have lots you could throw out the windows.”

“Or you could stick your head out a second story window and shoot down at them,” a woman said. “I guess I should introduce myself. I’m Ann.”

Gus’ voice dripped condescension when he told her, “Ann, there are a lot of zombies out there.”

“Are there more zombies than there are bullets?” she pressed. “I like Tony’s idea. Once zombies gather around a building with people in it, they just try to claw their way in whether that would work or not. You’d be looking at thousands of stationary targets.”

“People, please, let’s be serious for a—” Gus began, but he was interrupted as Stan brought him another slip of paper. “Make homemade explosives. Lure in zombies. Blow them up. No. Who wrote this?”

An elderly man raised his hand. “Hi. I’m John, and I’m a retired chemistry teacher. I can make passably large explosives with the right materials. They won’t be military grade, but it’s better than nothing.”

Gus waved for Stan to come over. “Stan, I need you to take down that suggestion box. It’s not helping.”

Ann waved her hands to get the group’s attention. “Excuse me, but there’s something I’d like to share with all of you.”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” Gus told her.

Ann ignored him, as did everyone else. She pointed to the nearest air vent pumping out blissfully cool air. “This is summer in Arizona. We’re looking at temperatures in the triple digits and low humidity. Staying cool and getting enough water is going to be a high priority, but it’s also our best weapon.”

“I’m sorry, but I’m not following you,” John told her.

“A person can die from dehydration fast under these conditions, and I think zombies can, too.”

Gus rolled his eyes. “We all know zombies can only be killed by destroying their brains.”

“Which dehydration would do,” Ann replied. “Zombies don’t seem to sweat or pee, but they’re still going to lose water to evaporation in these conditions. They need a source of water, maybe from eating their victims, but otherwise there’s not much out there for them. They won’t know how to use water fountains, and they’re too stupid to know how to open a bottle of water or even why they would want to. That means they’re going to be losing water from their bodies and not getting any back. It won’t take more than a few days until they’re as dry as beef jerky. Their muscles and organs would shrivel up and be destroyed, brains included.”

Tony snapped his fingers. “That means we don’t have to fight thousands of zombies. We just need to hold them off until they wither away.”

“I don’t think—” Gus started, only to be pushed aside by John.

“So we’ll collect food and water, and secure a building they can’t easily break into, like your office building idea!”

“And throw chairs at them!” Tony yelled. A few people gave him worried looks, and he said, “Hey, my ex wife is a zombie out there somewhere, and after three years of alimony I think I’m entitled to throw furniture.”

John looked positively giddy. “Do you know what this means? Any place that gets hot and dry enough, and at the same time doesn’t have a supply of easily available water like a stream or lake, is zombie proof. Zombies under those conditions would bake under the sun until they dried out completely. The American southwest, the Great Plains, the Rocky Mountains, any one of those would be ideal to wait out the few days or weeks for the zombies to die out, all the while the few remaining ones would get progressively slower and weaker.”

“You’d be safe in a cold place, too,” Ann added. “If you’re in the far north, the temperatures would drop and the zombies would freeze solid.”

“So you could bash them while they’re frozen?” Tony asked.

“Why bother?” John asked. The others looked to him, and he said, “If a body freezes solid, ice crystals form inside the cells. Those crystals either cut the cells apart like microscopic blades or pop the cells open like overinflated balloons. When the cells thaw out, they’re totally ruined and rot away in no time. It’s called Dorian Gray Syndrome.”

“Wait,” Gus said.

Tony rolled his eyes. “So the Canadians are safe. That figures.”

Ann climbed on top of a shipping crate and smiled. “The zombies outnumber us, but we’ve got a plan and we’re got hope! Come on, everyone! Let’s show these monsters what people can do when they work together!”

The group cheered and followed Ann out of the warehouse. Georgiou was the last to leave and offered Gus a shrug as he headed out the door. Gus watched the others surround a few zombies in their way and destroy them, not surprising when they had baseball bats and zombies only had teeth and nails.

Gus stared at them as they disappeared into the distance. He continued staring long after they were gone, eventually saying, “Looks like I need more survivors. I think I saw some by the airport.”

New Goblin Stories 17

“Hey!” Someone poked Habbly in the back as he lay on top of a 50-pound sack of rice. Habbly grumbled and rolled over, pulling an empty grain sack over himself, but the unwelcome guest wasn’t giving up. “Hey, this is private property!”

“Then neither of use should be here,” Habbly mumbled. “You leave first and I’ll be right behind you.”

There was a pause before the man addressed Habbly again. “Nice try. Go find another place to sleep, because for the next four hour this warehouse is under my protection.”

Habbly sat up and rubbed his eyes, pushing aside copious amount of dirty hair to reach his eyes. He studied his surroundings, slightly brighter than when he’d snuck in last night and even less impressive now that he could see it clearly. The warehouse contained sack after sack of rice, tons of the stuff. A few rats scurried about while a bored cat followed them, not sure whether it was interested in hunting. If you were looking for exciting places, this was as far away as you could go.

The young man with brown hair facing Habbly was equally unimpressive. He was in his late teens and wore gray and black clothes. Plain was the best way to describe his face, hair, height, weight, everything. He practically radiated blandness, averageness.

Then Habbly saw the youth’s staff. It was made of oak, stained and carved with strange symbols the goblin didn’t recognize. Long, narrow panels made of black marble were built into the staff so beautifully that they looked like the wood had grown around the marble. Maybe it had. That staff must have cost real money to make. Worse, it meant the kid was a wizard.

“Why is a wizard guarding rice?” Habbly asked.

“It’s a paying job, thank you very much, and temporary. So toddle on out of here and…wait, you’re a goblin. I thought those sacks you were laying on were you. Feeling kind of stupid now.”

Habbly yawned and stood up. He’d come here last night in the hope of finding a quiet place to sleep. If it was nice enough he would have spent days here in the silence and darkness. Goblins as a rule were well suited for living in shadowy places like this, but Habbly had another reason to take shelter in a grain warehouse. Warehouses were boring places where nothing happened, and Habbly was desperate for peace and quiet. The wizard would doubtless make sure he didn’t get it.

“I am a goblin. I didn’t eat your rice, although rats are chowing down on spilled grain. I’m not carrying money, weapons, gems, magic, artwork, knickknacks, horsehead bookends or anything else you might want.”

To Habbly’s shock, the wizard got down on his knees so he could look Habbly in the eyes. “I need a goblin. Please, can you help me?”

Habbly stared at him. “I’m sorry, what?”

“I need a goblin to introduce me to William Bradshaw, the King of the Goblins, the War Winner. Please, it’s more important than you can imagine!”

William Bradshaw was a name Habbly knew even if he’d never met the man. Bradshaw was the latest human to be tricked into becoming King of the Goblins, and earned the moniker War Winner by leading his goblins into one fight after another. No one understood how he’d survived those fights, much less won them, but he had. The poor fool should have been killed long ago or at least been slapped silly. Instead he’d become a man both feared and despised. That made the wizard’s request all the more confusing.

“Um, why?”

The wizard took Habbly by the hand and led him outside. “We shouldn’t be in here. Come, we’ll talk outside.”

“That’s not a good idea,” Habbly protested. He would have rather stayed in the relative safety of the warehouse, but he was half the height of the wizard and nowhere near as strong. He was pulled outside to the streets of Nolod.

Nolod was a city blended with a sewer, a stinking metropolis of a million souls known for trade, manufacturing and indescribable filth. The tall brick buildings were stained black by smoke and pollution. Streets were paved with cobblestones, and then covered with a glaze of mud, sand, dung and trash ground up by people’s feet until it became a paste. Men of wealth bought clothes monthly not only to stay current with fashion but also to replace clothes ruined by the foul air. Countless men, dwarfs, elves, minotaurs, ogres and trolls traveled the streets and spoke so much and so loudly that it became a constant background roar.

A few men stopped when they saw the wizard come onto the streets with Habbly. The wizard waved them off, saying, “It’s under control.”

“Can we take this into an alley, or at least a doorway?” Habbly asked. It was broad daylight, or at least as bright as it got through the thick layer of smog. Goblins stayed out of the light to avoid bigger races. “I’d rather not be chased off the street.”

“No one’s going to bother you while I’m here. I should have introduced myself earlier. I’m Kadid Lan, wizard of earth magics.”

“Charmed,” Habbly told him. “Earlier you sounded like you wanted me for something other than target practice.”

“I wouldn’t dream of hurting you!” Kadid exclaimed.

Habbly scratched his head, digging out a pile of dandruff in the process. Wizards were known for being powerful, grumpy, overconfident and preferring quiet to company. Kadid defied expectations. What could Habbly possibly do to help a wizard?

“Let me explain,” Kadid began. “I studied under Uoni Marthax, one of Nolod’s resident wizards. He’s powerful and respected, or at least feared enough that men give him a wide berth. Not long ago your King was fighting Quentin Peck, the richest man alive, and he came to my master for help. My master refused him. He said your King’s problems weren’t his and turned him away empty handed. King Bradshaw went on to defeat Peck, and when he did he revealed the horrors Peck had done to the world. Peck had created suffering like you wouldn’t believe across three continents.”

“I’d heard about him,” Habbly replied. The poor goblin had grown up in the living nightmare known as Battle Island and survived the war against the Fallen King. Suffering and fear were no strangers to him. But Quentin Peck was in a class all his own when it came to wreaking havoc. He’d pretended to be an honest businessman, all the while insidiously destroying the kingdoms he traded with. No one knew exactly what Bradshaw had done to Peck, but the richest man alive was gone and none mourned him.

“Afterwards I told my master that we should have helped your King. My master disagreed.” Kadid scowled, which would have looked intimidating on anyone except him. He just couldn’t look bland and scary at the same time.

“And that’s bad?” Habbly asked.

“It’s inexcusable! My master doesn’t want anyone angry at him, so he does nothing. He ignored Peck even when your King said what was happening, and my master is only too happy to ignore the next problem and the next after that.” Kadid looked down. “And I used to be just like him.”

Habbly rubbed his eyed. This was getting maudlin. “I’m not seeing where I come in.”

Kadid’s scowl was replaced with a pleading, sincere look. “I want to be more than what I was. I want to be the kind of person who makes the world better, like your King. I want to be a hero.”

Passing men snickered. Kadid raised his staff and shouted, “Angry wizard doesn’t like being laughed at!”

“Then angry wizard shouldn’t guard a warehouse,” a man retorted. “That’s poor man’s work.”

Kadid snarled before returning his attention to Habbly. “I left my master’s service after he called me a fool. Fool, maybe, but I’m no coward. I want to go to the King of the Goblins to apologize and offer my services. My old master was happy to let others win or lose. Your King fights for those in need, and I’d like to fight beside him.”

Habbly stared at Kadid and did his best not to look horrified. He wasn’t worried that Kadid would do something stupid like attack Bradshaw. The War Winner could take care of himself. But it was clear that Kadid was feeling heroic. Habbly had seen that plenty of times before, and it usually ended with the guy dead.

The wizard and goblin were drawing an audience as pedestrians stopped to watch. Most of them snickered at the wizard’s words. Nolod was known for riches and filth, a contradiction the city excelled at, but honor, courage, decency, these were foreign concepts. Seeing a man pledge himself to a distant king was laughable.

Not all men were so snide, their faces instead betraying fear and revulsion. Will Bradshaw had come to Nolod to face Quentin Peck, a man against a metropolis, and he’d won. The fighting had taken less than three weeks, yet the city hadn’t fully recovered from their battle. Half of Peck’s many businesses had closed forever and the rest been snapped up by opportunists, and many of Peck’s ships had been seized or stolen, reducing trade. If Kadid was willing to follow in Bradshaw’s footsteps then he was a threat to the city.

Habbly waved for Kadid to follow him into an alley running between warehouses. Once they had some degree of privacy, he said, “You’re an idiot.”

“Hey!”

“No, you’re an idiot among idiots. Wizard, you have no idea what you’re asking for. If you go this route then you’ll never know a second’s peace. Enemies will come after you day after day after day until you’ll dead. I’ve seen it happen to better men than you.”

“What?” Kadid struck a pose pointing a finger at Habbly. “You’re insulting your own King! He fights the good fight.”

“And nearly dies from it. How long can his luck hold out? Gamblers put his odds of living until year’s end at one in ten. You want to be like him, fight alongside him? You’ll go down with him.” Habbly put a hand over his face and shook his head before saying, “It’s just like Julius.”

Kadid’s outrage changes to surprise and then delight. “Julius Craton? You think I’m like him?”

“Yes.” Habbly looked at Kadid, the poor, bumbling fool. “I know him. He’s a friend of mine, sort of. I gave him the magic sword he uses these days.”

“That’s incredible! You’ve helped the greatest hero of our day!”

It was awe inspiring how blind Kadid was to reality. Maybe Habbly could get through to the wizard if he tried harder. “I met him, armed him, and I nearly watched him die. Julius is a man three steps ahead of death and losing ground fast. He fights one noble quest after another, usually alone or with too few helping him. He’s worn thin. Most men would have given up or died by now. He’s tough, so I figure he’ll last another eighteen months. After that he might get a funeral if someone can find his body, people will make nice speeches, and then they’ll look for their next hero.”

Kadid leaned his staff against the warehouse and threw his hands in the air. “Don’t you see? That’s what I’m trying to fix! Your King fought against impossible odds alone. Wizards, dragons, generals, knights, none of them helped! That happens all the time in Nolod and most of the world. No one is willing to risk their lives or reputations. They sit back and let someone else face the danger, and let the consequences be what they may. You need more men like me to help men like your King and Julius Craton. I want to be that man!”

Habbly gave Kadid a skeptical look. “You think you’re as strong as they are?”

Kadid looked down and rubbed the back of his head. “Um.”

“He’s not,” a passing woman said.

“It’s embarrassing,” said a dwarf.

“Ran for his life from a devil rat,” a man added.

“That happened once!” Kadid shouted. “Don’t laugh! You weren’t there! It was huge, with red eyes and sharp teeth, fifty pounds of hate! I got it in the end!”

“You’re guarding a warehouse,” Habbly pointed out. “That’s not exactly heroic, is it?”

Kadid looked down. “I need the money. The journey to your King is going to take weeks. That means money for food, road tolls, taxes, maybe bribes. This is one of the few honest jobs I could get.”

The wizard bent down to look Habbly in the eye. “You’re right. I’m no hero, not yet, but I could be. I could help men better than me, learn from them, and in time I’ll be as great. It’s a risk I’m glad to take if the alternative is living the life of a coward.”

“Living a life is better than dying for your dreams.” Habbly was getting a headache. This fool was so dead set on being a great man that he was going to end up just plain dead. What was it about humans that they were constantly ready to throw away their lives? Goblins weren’t this stupid!

“Let me explain it to you this way,” Habbly began. “I’ve seen more fights than I can count and been in too many. I’ve been in a war. Whatever you’ve heard about glory in battle is garbage. I came to Nolod to stow away on a ship going far away, somewhere there are no fights or at least less of them. I’ve had my fill of war and want no more of it. So when you come begging for the chance to run into battle, I’m letting you know as someone who’s been there that it’s not all it’s cracked up to be.”

Habbly saw men running in the street. He peered out and found a gang of men lazily walking toward the warehouse. There were eight of them dressed in leather and armed with daggers, clubs, gaff hooks and blackjacks. Young, strong, healthy, they were a threat and the street cleared as they approached.

“Trouble,” Habbly said.

“Evening, governor,” one of the gang said. “Seems to me we have a problem.”

Kadid should have run off. Instead he stepped out of the alley to meet them. “And what would that be?”

“The captain who rented this warehouse didn’t pay toll. You own a warehouse, you rent one, no difference, you pay the Warf Rats fifty guilders a month. We take it in cash or in cargo, but make no mistake, we take it.”

“My employer rented this warehouse for two nights and will have his goods shipped off tonight,” Kadid told the gang as they spread out in a half circle around him. “He’s already paid the fees Nolod requires. He’s not paying a guilder more, especially for protection money.”

“Ooh, strong words, governor, strong words,” the gang’s leader jeered. The others chuckled. “What’s he paying you? Can’t figure it’s enough to die for.”

Kadid gripped his staff and pointed it at the nearest gangster. “Your boss should have sent more men if he’s going to threaten a wizard.”

The leader drew a dagger and held it up to his face. He licked the flat of the blade and smiled. “An apprentice wizard for hire, hmm, let me think, does that intimidate me? You know what, no. Thought I felt something for a second there, but it was just gas.”

Habbly watched the two sides ready for battle. Kadid was outnumbered and by all accounts not that great of a wizard. The only smart thing to do would be back down, run or maybe get help. But he was sold on the dream of heroics, of being a big man, and it was going to get him killed.

And then Habbly saw it, a sight to disgust any sane, moral being. The streets had cleared around the fight, but only for twenty feet. Men, women, even children who’d been going about their business stopped to watch. Not one came to help Kadid, who might be an idiot, but was at least in the right. Some of them placed wagers on the fight, as if this was a sporting event. Habbly had seen the same thing on Battle Island and its gladiator pits. Men fought and died while crowds cheered, like it was fun.

It made him mad.

The gangsters moved in, Kadid began casting a spell, but Habbly got the first hit in. He grabbed a mop from a nearby washerwoman and swung it like a club, striking a gangster across the face. Two gangsters turned to face him while the other six went after Kadid. Habbly jabbed the mop handle in a man’s gut and then cracked it against his shins.

Kadid finished his spell. The layer of filth coating the ground slid across the street and gathered in front of the wizard in a glistening, stinking column six feet tall and two feet wide. There was the slightest pause before it sprayed at the gangsters and splattered against them, ruining their clothes and blinding them. The crowd cried out in disgust as a fair portion of that toxic stew hit them as well.

“You’re not getting one coin!” Kadid screamed. He swung his staff and struck the gang’s leader in the shoulder. Another swing hit the man in the ankles, tipping him over. “Not now, not ever! Do you hear me? Nothing!”

A gangster drew his dagger and threw it at Kadid. Habbly raised his mop in time to catch the dagger in the mop head. He pulled the dagger free and tripped the man with the mop handle.

Three gangsters cleaned enough filth from their eyes to get back in the fight. Kadid saw them coming and cast another spell. Cobblestones pulled free from the road and connected end to end, forming a long whip made of bricks. The whip swung at knee height, sending all three men screaming to the ground before the cobblestones went back into the street.

The gang leader staggered back to his feet. Kadid saw him and charged the man. The leader had just enough time to raise a club and block Kadid’s staff swing. Two more followed and broke the man’s club. The leader swung his dagger, but Habbly ran over and grabbed the man’s arm to make sure the blade never hit.

“Are you intimidated now?” Kadid yelled. He struck the leader hard enough to drop him to the ground. Another gangster tried to tackle the wizard. Kadid braced his staff against the warehouse and pointed it at the man. The gangster’s charge sent him straight into the staff stomach first. That staggered him long enough for Kadid to hit him across the face.

Two gangsters tried to run. Habbly tripped the first with the mop while Kadid chased down the second one and knocked him down. A lone gangster looked strong enough to continue the fight, but seeing so many of his fellows defeated convinced him to surrender.

Kadid breathed hard as he stared at the men. “Get this through your thick skulls. This warehouse is under my protection. You won’t steal a single grain of rice out of it. You won’t get so much as a copper coin from my employer. If you even think about setting the warehouse on fire, I will personally entomb you in bricks and dump you in the ocean. Am I getting through to you, or do you need a demonstration?”

“Clear, governor,” the leader gasped.

As the gangsters tried to leave, Hably whispered to Kadid. The wizard ordered, “Drop your weapons. You can leave, but not armed.”

Reluctantly the men disarmed and left a pile of weapons at Kadid’s feet. Habbly whispered more to Kadid, who added, “And your money. Come on, empty your wallets.”

“What the…you’re robbing us?” a gangster sputtered.

Kadid leaned down into the man’s face and scowled. “Call it the price of stupidity. Angry wizard is losing his patience. Money, now.”

The gangsters emptied their pockets and produced a small pile of copper coins. Injured, disarmed and broke, they fled into the crowd. With the show over the crowd dispersed, moving on as if it was just another day. A single man with a badly stained suit stayed behind and marched up to Kadid.

“Look at what you did to my clothes! This is never going to come out! I demand—”

Kadid pressed the tip of his staff against the man’s neck. “You stayed to watch the show, you take responsibility for the consequences. Beat it.”

With that the fight was over. Habbly handed the mop back to the washerwoman while Kadid took the loot from the fight and retreated to the warehouse’s doorway. Exhausted, Habbly joined him there.

“That was pretty impressive for someone who doesn’t like to fight,” Kadid said.

“I don’t like it, but I’m good at it.” Habbly sorted through the weapons until he found a dagger that fit his hands well. “That’s not bad magic. Why did you hire out for a job this small if you’re so strong?”

Kadid looked worried. “Um, those two spells are all I can muster. I won’t be able to cast more magic until tomorrow. But I’m getting better! Last year I could only cast one spell a day.”

Habbly put a hand over his face. “You can cast two spells a day and you want to be a hero.”

“I want to be the man who saves those in need. Is that a bad thing?”

“No, I guess not.”

They spent the next few hours talking and keeping an eye out for the Warf Rats. Thankfully the gang didn’t make a second attack. Men came near dusk with wagons and loaded up the rice for shipment elsewhere. A richly dressed merchant counted out ten guilders and handed them to Kadid.

“Good money for two day’s work,” the merchant said. He tipped his hat and left without another word.

Astounded, Habbly asked, “That’s all you got paid?”

Kadid shrugged. “That plus another job and the bounty money on that devil rat should get me where I’m going. Are you coming or not? I don’t want to force you into this, but it would go smoother with a goblin’s help, and I think you’d be happier in a kingdom of your own people.”

“I don’t know,” Habbly said. He and Kadid left the now empty warehouse behind and headed into Nolod’s tangled web of streets.

“We’ll find a flophouse to spend the night and make a decision in the morning,” Kadid said. He stopped in mid stride when they came across an elaborate poster stuck to a wall. “That’s weird.”

Habbly went over to study the poster. “What is?”

“This. I’ve seen lots of advertisements in Nolod, but they’re always on cheap paper and have sloppy writing. This one’s made of high quality paper. It looks like it’s made with linen as well as wood pulp. Pricy. And look at that fine penmanship. The blue ink is a strange choice, too.”

“No secrets,” Habbly read aloud. “I’ve seen these before in Sunset City. That’s hundreds of miles from here. Let’s see what they’ve got this time.”

“Ooh, look at this!” Kadid pointed to a paragraph near the middle. “It says Julius Craton is on a secret mission to Oceanview Kingdom, where he will do battle with the Red Hand criminal organization. I’ve heard of them. They used to work out of Nolod before they were chased off. Still a dangerous bunch.”

Habbly’s jaw dropped. “Do you have enough money to pay for ship passage to Oceanview? Please say yes!”

Kadid looked confused. “What’s the matter?”

Habble stabbed the middle of the poster with his new dagger. “This! If Julius was on a secret mission, it’s not a secret anymore! Anybody who comes across this poster knows about it.”

“Not just this one.” Kadid pointed his staff at identical posters on other buildings. “Look. There are dozens of them. Who put these up? They weren’t here this morning.”

Terror gripped Habbly’s heart. “I’ve seen these posters in other kingdoms! If there are so many and they’re spread so wide, it’s almost certain the Red Hand will hear about Julius’ mission. He’s walking into a trap!”

Prison

Magistrate Cassium snarled as his carriage hit another bump. He hated long rides through the country. No one properly maintained the roads in these boondock parts of Skitherin Kingdom. Add that to the risk of travel, where bandits and monsters preyed on those daring to use seldom traveled roads, and this was turning into a miserable trip. Another bump forced Cassium against the carriage door. “You witless clod, are you aiming for every hole in the road?”

“Sorry, sir,” the driver called back. “There are too many to miss.”

“Try harder!” Cassium grumbled and tried to get comfortable. The carriage was on loan from the Ministry of Obedience, and they’d spared every possible expense. No cushions on the seat, no lock on the doors, why, they’d even issued him two old gelded horses to pull it. It was infuriating, and he’d seen the effort the ministry went to satisfy higher-ranking magistrates.

Cassium had been with the ministry for five years, laboring constantly to enforce order among the halfwits and criminals who seemed to make up three quarters of Skitherin’s population. Still young and healthy despite several attempts on his life, Cassium had attracted the attention of his betters. Those well connected slobs placed as much of their work as possible onto his shoulders. It had surprised them when he’d submitted the request for this assignment. Horrors, they’d have to do their own work until he got back! But the dark haired Cassium had persisted until they gave in, likely just to avoid having to listen to him make sense again.

It was wrong how he was treated. He was smart, more intelligent than his so-called superiors, yet he’d remained in the same post for five years. No promotions, no citations, no awards, not even a new crimson and gold uniform. This one was fraying at the cuffs. Cassium had the highest conviction rate in the ministry, in no small part because he was one of the few magistrates to actually hold court. He didn’t take bribes, a rarity, and he’d led four punitive expeditions. He deserved respect and received none.

Bang! The carriage hit another pothole, this one big enough that the wheels on the right side went entirely into the air. For a second Cassium feared the carriage would tip over, but it landed with another jarring bang. “Stop!”

“Sir, I—”

“Stop!” The carriage came to a halt amid a forest of thin trees. Cassium exited the carriage and waited while his driver climbed down. He waved for his private servant to come down as well. The two men wore the black and tan of lesser servants in the ministry. Cassium took a short weighted rod from inside his flowing robes and struck the driver across the face. He pointed at his servant and ordered, “Drive, and if that happens again you forfeit this month’s pay.”

“Yes, sir,” the servant said. Both men climbed back onto the carriage while Cassium returned inside it.

This wretched trip did have a few things in its favor. The first was good weather. Rains could have turned the dirt road into impassable mud and left him stranded for days or even weeks. The second advantage was it gave Cassium time to read. He’d bought new books about magic and needed time to study them. Actual spell books were illegal for anyone but state sanctioned wizards, but he was smart. Books like the leather bound tome currently in his hands had hints, snippets of information he could glean out. He had two more books like this one with him and ten more at home, and if he studied hard enough he was sure he could grasp the basics of magic.

That still might not be enough to earn a promotion, but if Cassium’s suspicions were correct, this journey could be just what he needed to guarantee one.

Hours dragged by. Cassium had been traveling like this for three days, going through towns, then fields and finally these wastes. The soil was thin and infertile, supporting only pine trees that were harvested once every fifty years. The last harvest had been ten years ago, so the trees were small and the view unimpressive.

His books proved equally unimpressive. Most repeated what he’d read elsewhere. Other parts were outright lies. The authors kept alluding to a connection between goblins and circles. Balderdash! He’d overseen the destruction of two goblin settlements, each more garbage dump than village. There had been no circles in their hovels or graffiti. Burning those vile bases of indecency was an honor diminished by the goblins fleeing ahead of his guards, and the fact that the horrid places had smelled like dung heaps. One of these days he’d have to take a goblin alive and see if there was anything to this circle business.

“It’s a disgrace,” he muttered as he read. “Harpies, mimics, even goblins are born with magic. Men have to earn it.”

That was the most infuriating fact he’d learned from his books. Gutter trash races like harpies and goblins had natural magic. Harpies used magic to fly and had their potent screams. Goblins were so stupid and insane that they could warp space, assuming there were enough of them together. But men, no, men had to struggle and strive and fight to get what those unworthy curs had from birth!

“We’re almost there, sir,” his servant called out.

Cassium closed his books on magic and put them in a backpack, careful to hide them among his pile of legal books and documents. It was unlikely anyone would dare to inspect a magistrate’s possessions, but he took no chances someone might steal them. He looked out the window and frowned at the sight. The dirt road ended at a cluster of brick buildings. Most were small, single family dwellings, but there was a storehouse and the reason for his coming, a surprisingly small building that was entrance to The Pit.

The carriage came to a halt and Cassium got out. He found guards on duty, older men who’d served Skitherim for decades. To his amazement he also saw women and children by the houses. Even more appalling, two goblins scampered around the edge of the crude settlement. The men here had once been soldiers, and should be able to keep their homes clean of such vermin.

“The Pit, the last home for the kingdom’s worst offenders. You wouldn’t think so many people were here just by looking at it,” his servant said. The driver kept quiet, mindful of the blow he’d taken earlier.

“People?” Cassium asked derisively. “There are no people here. Eight hundred convicts are stored in The Pit, never to see the light of day.”

“My idiot father wasted twenty years working here when they were still quarrying limestone,” the servant said. “He said the quarry went down a hundred feet before they capped it and turned it into a prison. I’ve heard men would rather die than be sent to The Pit.”

“What convicts want is of no importance,” Cassium declared. Armed guards marched over to meet him and take charge of his carriage.

Cassium’s servant bit his lip at the sight of the men approaching and whispered, “Tread carefully, sir. If you’re right then we have no friends here and are far from help.”

“The law bends for no one!” Cassium snapped. His servant looked down and the armed men hesitated at the magistrate’s harsh tone. Cassium took out the weighted rod again and shoved it under his servant’s chin, forcing the man’s head up until he had to look Cassium in the eyes. More softly he said, “I have endured much getting here, and I will not risk the reward I am owed because you lack a backbone. I will get what I deserve.”

“A dung heap and a shovel?” a high-pitched voice asked in the distance. Cassium spun around to see the goblin that had shouted the question. “A smack upside the head? Come on, let me know if I’m getting close.”

Cassium would have gladly chased the pest down, but he had bigger fish to fry. The fool in charge of this foul hole in the ground came soon after his men, his hand outstretched.

“Magistrate Cassium, welcome to The Pit,” the older man said. “I am—”

“Warden Vastile Jast, formerly a company commander, yes, I know who you are,” Cassium interrupted. He despised time wasting formalities and made no effort to shake the warden’s hand. “You and your men were judged too old for battle and transferred to this post. It was thought you could handle the responsibilities of managing The Pit, an assumption I have reason to doubt.”

Warden Jast took the insults in stride. He was in his fifties, still strong but showing his age with gray hair and wrinkles around his eyes. The man wore chain armor as if he expected battle, and was armed with a sword and mace. Jast also wore a single badge of honor, a leather neckband with a glittering crimson triangle, the point aimed down. That crystalline triangle was proof of valor in battle and rarely given. Cassium was surprised the warden hadn’t pawned it for drinking money.

“Allow me to offer you and your servants the pleasures of my home, limited as they are,” Jast continued. He waved to one of the larger houses and asked, “If I may escort you?”

Cassium pointed his weighted rod at the nearby children. “Warden Jast, this is a military post. Explain why civilians are present.”

“My men and I took an oath of loyalty when we were conscripted. We did not take an oath of chastity. Many of us married and had children after we were taken off active duty.”

Strictly speaking the warden was correct. His men had the right to take wives, and so long as family members stayed out of The Pit there was no breach of the law. But it was walking a fine line, and Cassium had seen too many men skirt the law until they openly broke it. This was a mark against the warden.

“Lead the way,” Cassium said.

Jast took him to a larger building made of limestone blocks. It wasn’t an odd choice of material given that this had once been a quarry. Inside, the building was a plain office with the associated paperwork, furniture and wasted space. The warden offered Cassium a chair and then sat behind a desk. Cassium’s servants stood alongside two of the warden’s guards.

“I hope you will forgive the lack of proper amenities for someone of your rank,” Jast said. “Our funding is limited and leaves little room for luxuries. Normally that isn’t a problem. This is the first time a magistrate ever visited The Pit.”

“Before today there was no reason to,” Cassium retorted. He took papers from his backpack and laid them out across the desk. “Warden Jast, forty-three days ago I ordered a prisoner in your custody sent to my court. Instead I was told he had died. A second order for a different prisoner ten days later received an identical reply.”

“That is correct.”

Cassium brought out more papers. “Two criminals in your custody died, and that’s all you have to say?”

“Men die, magistrate. They die in battle, from sickness, from old age and sometimes for no reason at all.”

Pointing at the papers, Cassium said, “I found twelve requests for prisoner transfers from The Pit in the three years since you were assigned here. All of them were told that the prisoner had died. Every time the same answer, warden! I find that highly suspicious.”

Cassium expected Jast to lie or beg. To his shock, the man had no reaction, just a bland acceptance of the situation. “Magistrate, I’m sure you send a great many men to prison, but I doubt you’ve spent much time in one. The Pit is the largest prison in Skitherin Kingdom. We are at full capacity with eight hundred prisoners, and we receive fifty more a month. Those new inmates take the place of those who die.”

“You lose fifty a month?” Cassium demanded. “How?”

“Most are in poor shape when they arrive,” Jast replied. “They’ve been beaten until they confessed, chained for weeks or months in other jails, and generally had the life squeezed out of them. When they come here it’s as defeated men with no hope or reason to live. Men in that situation die, and faster than you’d think possible.”

Furious, Cassium jabbed a finger at the papers. “You are responsible for those men, warden. You are paid a stipend to provide them with food and clothing.”

“Ah yes, that.” Jast took three small copper coins from his desk and held them up. “I’m sent three plebs per week per prisoner. Do you know how little food that buys? Or clothing? Obtaining medicine for the sick is totally out of the question.”

Cassium hesitated. “Why do you need medicine?”

“Because one of your fellow magistrates sent me a prisoner infected with red eyes plague.”

“That’s not a fatal disease!”

“It is when it strikes men who are poorly fed and were savagely beaten during their arrest and interrogations.” Jast spoke as if this were common knowledge. Betraying neither fear or anger, he explained, “Once he arrived, the illness swept through the prison. We lost two hundred men that month and another hundred the following month. It was just enough to ease overcrowding.”

“You idiot!” Cassium stood up and pounded on the desk. “I needed those men to build a case against an entire village guilty of treason!”

“I read the files on the men you asked for. They owned land a nobleman wanted, that’s all. I daresay the treasonous village owns more land that nobleman has his eye on. Those prisoners were guilty of being too weak to defend themselves, nothing more.”

Outraged, Cassium yelled, “They were guilty because I said they were guilty! I won’t have a worn out foot soldier question my rulings!”

Jast fixed his eyes on Cassium, his expression and tone of voice showing only minor irritation. “I served this kingdom for decades, long enough to know that the best and brightest get nothing. Those prisoners, me, you, we’re not from noble families. It doesn’t matter what we do. The metal around my neck is called Blood for the Throne. I earned it killing a chimera singlehanded. I should have been made a castle garrison commander. I should have been made a general. Instead, after decades of loyal service and bravery, of facing death time and again, my reward is to spend the rest of my life watching men weaken and die while being powerless to save them.”

Standing up, Jast said, “And you, sir, are no different. The name Cassium carries great weight among the prisoners. Grown men weep at the sound of your name. One in every ten men here owes their presence to your rulings. Yet for all that, you are Magistrate Cassium, not Chief Magistrate Cassium, not Lord Justice Cassium. You have gotten as far as your low birth will allow, and you shall go no higher.”

The warden’s words broke through the thick layer of arrogance around the magistrate’s heart. Unfortunately the only thing beneath that arrogance was a deep vein of self-pity.

“I could have been a wizard,” Cassium said. “I’m smart. I have money to afford lessons. I could have served with distinction in the army or the court. Instead that privilege goes to sycophantic bumblers from minor noble families.”

“The army needs more wizards,” Jast replied. “I lost count how many times we requested a wizard’s assistance and were told none could be spared. Magistrate, one thing I’ve learned from my time here is that we are all prisoners. Some of us just have larger cells.”

Cassium scowled. He didn’t like being reminded of how far he could have risen, and any suggestion that he was equal to this dolt was insulting. That was a second mark against the warden.

There was another reason why he was angry. Cassium had expected to find a grand conspiracy at The Pit. Either the warden was refusing to produce prisoners for reasons unknown or he no longer had those prisoners. Cassium had suspected the warden was selling them to slavers. But if the men had simply died then the magistrate had come all this way and antagonized his superiors to authorize the journey for nothing. The damage to his reputation would be staggering if he returned home empty handed!

Desperate, Cassium said. “I want to see the bodies.”

Jast shrugged. “Dead prisoners are cremated so their graves don’t become rallying points for discontented elements in the kingdom. It’s official policy. The best I can do is show you ash heaps that haven’t blown away yet.”

Cassium grew suspicious. No living prisoners, no graves when they died, it was too tidy. “Then show me prisoners who are still alive. You have eight hundred of them.”

“Sir, I—”

“I had red eyes plague ten years ago and am thus immune to it, so if you still have sick inmates they can’t infect me. I want to see your inmates today, and if I am not satisfied with what I find, then one of your subordinates will take your place.”

Jast looked unbothered by the threat. “I don’t bring prisoners up except for transferring them to another jail or to a courthouse. Taking them out of their cells gives them an opportunity to escape, and desperate men take any chance they can get. If you want to speak with the prisoners then you’ll have to come with me down below and see them in their cells.”

“So be it.”

Cassium followed the warden, with his servant, driver and the two guards following them. They left the warden’s office and headed for the entrance to The Pit. It wasn’t much to look at, a small stone building without windows and a thick oak bar across the door. Guards stood at those doors and opened them when the warden ordered. A blast of fetid air shot out when the doors opened, a mix of rot, dung and countless unwashed bodies. The two guards following Jast took lanterns and lit them before going inside ahead of the others.

“Uh, sir,” Cassium’s servant began. Both his servant and driver looked nervous as they stared into the yawning entrance to the worst prison in the kingdom. “It’s just, the odor, sir. Peasants smell bad enough when they’re allowed a monthly bath. Surely the driver can handle your needs without my presence.”

The driver backed up. “Wait a minute! I was assigned the job of getting you here. You’re his servant, not me.”

Both men were engaged in Skitherin’s favorite sport of passing the buck, when Cassium lost his temper and ended the matter. “I’m going in and you’re both going with me.”

Inside was a spiral staircase just wide enough for one man to walk on at a time. It went down, deep into the earth where men had once removed countless tons of stone for building projects across the kingdom. The walls were dirty and the air stank. Echoing voices called out from far below, but they were too faint to understand.

Cassium looked down the staircase. “How many guards are below?”

“There are eight floors, with five armed guards at the entrance to each floor,” Jast explained. “New prisoners are the ones most likely to try escaping, so they’re sent to the bottom level. They’re also the ones best able to answer your questions.”

Cassium checked the notes in his backpack and pulled out a single page. “Here, prisoner Alec Roarmass, convicted of conspiring against the throne. He was sent to you fifteen days ago.”

“Yes, the smuggler,” Jast said in a resigned tone. “How does smuggling winter clothes into the kingdom qualify as conspiring against the throne?”

“He was selling to known radicals,” Cassium said hotly. “Is he still alive, or is this another of your convenient casualties?”

“He lives and he complains constantly,” Jast answered. “I’ll take you to him.”

With that Jast led them into The Pit. Jast had been right when he suggested that Cassium had rarely been in a prison. The magistrate found the experience unnerving. Loud random sounds, the stench, the humidity in the air, it was hideous. Fluids dripped down the brickwork, and squirming things wiggled across the floor. There was no light except from the guards’ lanterns. Cell doors were made of stone and sealed tight, with only a small window letting in air. When Cassium looked into one of the cells, he could only see the dim outline of a wretch huddled in a corner. By the look of him he’d be another of the warden’s failures before long.

“Mercy,” a voice called out. “Mercy, please.”

“Ignore him,” Jast said.

Cassium rolled his eyes. “I plan to. You stated the loss rate of prisoners earlier. What is their average lifespan once they arrive?”

“It depends on their age and condition. Most live three to nine months. A few last much longer, many much shorter. I’ve seen healthy men live only a few weeks while ones I was sure would die lasted a year. A man’s willpower matters more here than physical strength.”

They reached another staircase going deeper. Confused, Cassium asked, “Why is there such a distance between stairs, and why do they only go down one floor?”

“It’s a security feature,” Jast replied. “If there is a breakout, prisoners can’t go straight up to the surface. They have to travel across every floor to reach the next set of stairs, where they’ll find more guards and more locked doors. No one escaped The Pit before I was posted here. No one has since my arrival. No one ever will.”

They’d just begun descending the second flight of stairs when Cassium saw something run across the floor. It was too small to be a man, and when it giggled he knew what he was dealing with.

“There’s a goblin down here! Jast, you let a goblin sneak into the jail!”

Jast showed the same bland disinterest to this news as he did all else. “What do you expect? Goblins are everywhere. One hid in the carts bringing food to the inmates and escaped into the prison.”

“And you didn’t kill him?” Cassium sputtered.

“If he wants to live here, I’m willing to let him.” The warden actually smiled when he said, “He’s been down here nine months, healthy as could be, eating God only knows what. Goblins are real survivors. Floods, fires, avalanches, hurricanes, tornadoes, droughts, wars, none of it seems to bother them. It makes me wonder if the day will come where goblins are all that’s left in the world.”

That asinine comment was the third and final mark against the warden. Regardless of what he found, Cassium decided that the moment he got home he would recommend Jast be removed from his post and executed on the grounds that the man was too deranged to carry out his work. The guards had served with him too long to accept a new leader and would have to go as well. Fortunately, there were plenty of poor men desperate enough to take the job.

“You may be willing to put up with that monster’s presence, but I won’t.” Cassium drew a dagger from his backpack and went after the goblin. The little thing wore rancid leather clothes and had bone spikes running down his back. The goblin giggled and gibbered as he ran from Cassium.

“Do you want to see the prisoner or not?” Jast asked. Neither he nor his guards made any move to join the chase.

Cassium ignored him and went after the goblin. “I will not leave this wretch alive in what is supposed to be a jail for the kingdom’s most dangerous criminals! It shocks me that you tolerate such a breach of the law!”

It took a few seconds, but Cassium caught up with the goblin. He threw his dagger at the monster’s back, confident that he’d hit and kill the pest.

The dagger should have pieced the verminous goblin, but instead the already foul air became even darker and mustier before the weapon vanished. The goblin laughed and escaped. A second later the dagger reappeared and struck the wall.

“You tried to hit the floor and missed, high pockets!” the goblin laughed as it fled into the darkness. “I bet your aim in the bathroom is no better!”

“That’s why I wasn’t chasing him,” Jast said as he walked over. He picked up the dagger and handed it to Cassium. “I’ve campaigned for decades and seen things you haven’t. Goblins can warp space. It’s not something they do often, and they usually can’t control it, but when their lives are in danger they can make the strangest things happen…like making a dagger disappear.”

“Magic from birth, given to a creature too stupid to appreciate it.” Cassium spat in disgust. He’d read about goblins and their ability to warp space, and seeing it in person was disorientating. How could such an idiot make things disappear, or if the stories were true make things appear from nowhere? His books spent a little time on the subject when they weren’t babbling about goblins and circles. Angry, Cassium said, “The prisoner.”

“This way.”

Jast led them ever deeper into The Pit. Each level had the same dispirited prisoners languishing in their cells. Cassium had no pity for them, but dead men couldn’t be called to testify against coconspirators, nor could their lives be used as bargaining chips to ensure their relatives obey orders. Now that he thought about it, Skitherin Kingdom could be in danger if word got out that so many convicts had died. Their families could revolt. There, that was sufficient legal justification to get rid of the warden.

Not all the sick prisoners had died, for these hallways were filled with the sound of coughing. Cassium’s servant covered his mouth with his sleeve. His driver merely shrugged and said, “Better you than me.”

Cassium scowled at those words. ‘Better you than me,’ nearly qualified as Skitherin’s national motto. Too many men looked the other way when crime happened or the consequences fell, provided it didn’t affect them or the few people they loved. There was no loyalty to the throne, no desire to serve, and no attempt to take responsibility, just a craven willingness to ignore everything that doesn’t personally affect them. The Ministry of Obedience had spent decades trying to beat that flaw out of the citizenry, and failed.

“How much further?” Cassium demanded.

“We’ll reach your prisoner in another ten minutes,” Jast assured him.

They went ever deeper into the ground, floor after floor. They’d just reached the fifth floor when there was a tapping from a nearby cell, then a bang! Bang! Bang! Cassium went for his dagger as his servant and driver got behind the guards escorting them.

“That one still has some fight left in him,” Jast said casually. “I thought he’d give up after a few weeks, but he keeps trying to break down the door. It reminds me of something that happened during the False Land War. You remember when…oh, yes, you wouldn’t have been born yet. There was a small castle, one of the nameless ones on the border that were built long ago, then abandoned and repaired a hundred times over the years. A wizard named Dark Cloth lived there and was attacking caravans and villages.”

“Dark Cloth?” Cassium asked. He didn’t try to hide his contempt.

“He picked the name, not me. He’d fixed the gates so well we couldn’t breach them even with a battering ram. We tried for days, hammering just like that fellow in the cell. I thought we’d have to starve the wizard out, months and months of siege costing who knows how much money and lives. Turned out we didn’t have to.”

“He surrendered?” Cassium’s servant asked. Cassium snarled at the man, silencing him.

“His castle came down around him. My men and I were happy enough but couldn’t figure out the cause until we saw goblin tunnels in the wreckage. Dark Cloth had destroyed a village known for making cheese, one the goblins frequently snuck into to steal a wheel or two. They didn’t appreciate the damage done to their cheese supply, and made their displeasure known in a very dramatic and permanent fashion.”

“Goblins did what you couldn’t with a company of men, and you’re actually speaking of it?” Cassium marveled at the warden’s stupidity. How could Jast have remained in his post for so long if he’d openly admit to such a humiliating event?

Jast stepped into a pool of foul brown liquid, splashing Cassium’s robes with it. “It was an eye opening experience. I learned not to discount the small and meek that day, regardless of how little others might think of them.”

Every step in the prison was worse than the one before it. The ceiling dripped with condensation until it seemed to rain on them. The stench actually got worse, like rotting meat blended with spoiled milk. Random sounds increased in both frequency and volume. Nerve wracking as it was, the fact that the guards and warden didn’t seem to even notice the foul conditions made matters even worse.

Cassium was fast losing his temper with the warden and his degenerate prison. His servant looked like he was seconds away from panicking from their ghastly surroundings. His driver, a useless fool to begin with, kept trying to hide behind Cassium.

Once they descended to the next level, they found the floor slick with water fouled by liquid waste. More of the stuff dripped off the ceiling and down the walls, enough to ruin Cassium’s robes beyond all use. “What madness is this? Is this a prison or a sewer?”

“It’s rained often this month and raised the water table,” Jast told him as he continued marching, splashing through the mess. “Lower levels of The Pit can flood, so we have bilge pumps like those aboard ships to pump water out of the prison. Healthier inmates handle that task.”

Cassium’s servant blurted out, “They serve the very prison that holds them?”

That would have earned him a strike across the face, except Cassium wanted to hear the answer. Jast walked by more cells with moaning prisoners, saying, “They cooperate once they learn that the alternative to manning the pumps is drowning.”

“Warden,” Cassium began.

“Almost there.”

“Warden, there is another goblin! There, right there in front of you!”

Goblins as a rule were small, ugly, weak and stupid, and this one had doubled down on ugly. The goblin trying to hide in a corner had long, filthy hair, like a mane going down to his waist. His raggedy clothes were so dirty they were black. His arms were longer than his legs, so when he ran he actually galloped on all fours like an animal.

“Oh, him.” The warden kept walking like it was nothing. “He’s been here longer than I have. I call him Mouse.”

“This will not do!” Cassium marched in front of the warden and pressed a finger against the man’s chest. “Having even one goblin in a prison is unheard of, and you’ve allowed two of the vermin to take up residence. You, sir, have failed in the most basic duty of a warden.”

“He’s clearly never dealt with goblins before,” Jast told one of his guards. “Magistrate, it happens all the time. Goblins are crazy. There’s no making sense of what they do. Put a goblin in prison and he’ll break out the same day. Try to keep him out of the prison and he’ll stop at nothing to get in. I’ll wager a year’s pay that you’ll find goblins hiding in every prison in Skitherin.”

“No one breaks into prison!” Cassium yelled.

Mouse the goblin raised his hand. “I did.”

“I have had enough!” Cassium yelled before drawing his dagger and throwing it. The goblin made a break for it. He didn’t have to. The air around him turned musty and dark before live earwigs rained down and a tree stump appeared from nowhere. The dagger hit the stump, sparing the fleeing goblin.

“I already told you it’s not worth attacking them,” Jast said. “How many more times do you need to see the same thing?”

Cassium gritted his teeth and prepared to let loose a string of insults and obscenities the likes of which the world had never heard, when suddenly his eyes opened wide and his jaw dropped. “I’ve already seen a goblin warp space twice. Even once should have been impossible.”

With that he seized a lantern from one of Jast’s guards and set it on the floor. Quickly he opened his backpack and took out the books he had on magic. He flipped through them, reading by the lantern’s meager light as he looked for and then found sections on goblins.

“Magistrate, what’s this about?” Jast asked.

“Shut up.” Cassium checked one book and then another until he found what he was looking for. This was one of those rare and happy instances where his books agreed with one another, besides that circle nonsense. He stood up and pointed one of the books at Jast as if it were a weapon.

“Goblins warp space through their combined stupidity and insanity. Combined, warden. It takes many goblins to warp space even once. To do it twice, and in a short period of time, demands the presence of large numbers of goblins. The Pit doesn’t have two goblins in it. There must be dozens of them!”

Jast smirked. “Try thousands. Tally ho!”

Cell doors around them burst open to release waves of filthy, stinking, hooting goblins. They ran past Jast and his guards before swarming the magistrate, his servant and driver. Cassium tried to fight back while his men tried to flee. They were overwhelmed and pulled screaming to the floor. More goblins stole the magistrate’s backpack and ate most of his possessions.

Cassium struggled in vain as the goblins jeered at him. Jast walked up to the magistrate and frowned. “You just couldn’t leave well enough alone.”

“What have you done?” Cassium demanded.

“I give you credit for not being afraid, and you figured out some of what’s going on here,” Jast said. “I don’t give you credit for anything else. Like I said before, your name carried a lot of weight here. The prisoners told me stories about you. They received beatings, whippings and every sort of insult in your court, but never justice.”

“How dare you!”

“He dares very easily,” a goblin replied. This one was small, barely two and a half feet tall. Spear bald, the goblin wore ratty clothes and had yellowish skin and a perpetual grin. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am Innit, and I speak for these goblins.”

Cassium looked at Jast and then Innit. “You, you’re in league with them!”

“I am,” Jast admitted.

The goblins dragged Cassium and his men further into the prison while Jast, his guards and Innit walked alongside. More goblins ran in from elsewhere in the prison to laugh and jeer their prisoners, their numbers growing by the minute. Innit kept smiling and explained, “We learned of this wonderful place years ago quite by accident, and hurried over at once. Breaking in was hard but worth it. It’s warm in the winter, protected from outside attack, and almost no one comes here. Dark, dank, smelly, why, I can’t say enough good things about it.”

Jast continued, “I didn’t know what to expect when I was assigned this post. Three days speaking with inmates proved this was a place of horrors. So many people were here for the crime of having what men in power wanted.”

Furious, Cassium demanded, “What did you expect them to say? The truth?”

“I spoke with enough people outside the prison to learn that the inmates weren’t lying. Not one man in ten was truly guilty, and even the real criminals didn’t deserve this.” Jast walked on in silence for a moment. “But there was nothing I could do. Their land was confiscated, so they couldn’t go home. They were convicted felons, so they couldn’t settle elsewhere in Skitherin without being caught and executed. I couldn’t safely smuggle them out of the kingdom when we’re so far from the border.”

“A most unfortunate situation,” Innit agreed. “My people were in a bind, since we couldn’t move in with so many humans already present. That’s when we made this.”

Jast opened a cell door to reveal a circle made of bricks on the floor. It was ten feet across, and each brick had a different symbol carved into it. Cassium realized in horror that this must be the circle his books kept babbling about.

“You’ll have to explain this,” Jast told Innit. “I’ve never understood the thing.”

“It’s a goblin gate,” Innit said. “There are a thousand of them all over the world, hidden away in quiet, isolated places. Each one is made with twenty bricks connecting them to twenty other gates, and each of those is connected to twenty more. Goblin gates are powered by stupidity and craziness, which goblins have in surplus. Once we step on a gate, it can take us anywhere.

“We tunneled into an empty cell and built a goblin gate, then told the prisoners we were taking over and they would have to go.” Innit’s smile was briefly replaced with by a look of utter puzzlement. “I can’t explain why they left without a fight. Many seemed quite cheerful to lose their home, actually giddy.”

“I didn’t know what was happening until a third of the prisoners were gone,” Jast admitted. He kneeled down next to Cassium and looked sad. “I’d been here for months and couldn’t do anything for these poor souls, and then goblins gave me the answer.”

“You let the rest of your prisoners escape?” Cassium yelled.

“I escorted them to the gate and sent them through,” Jast replied. “They deserved better, but this was the best I could do. Wherever they went, there’s at least a chance they can build a new life. It was easy to keep secret since no one came here except more prisoners. When officials in the Ministry of Obedience asked for a prisoner, I said the man was dead. It worked for three years until you showed up.”

“And you keep the money sent to feed them!” Cassium struggled to break free, but the filthy mob of goblins holding him was too strong.

Jast shrugged. “Three plebs a week for eight hundred prisoners comes out to only twenty-four hundred plebs. It keeps my men and their families fed better than the wages we’re paid. But the money doesn’t matter. This is justice, magistrate, real justice, the kind people don’t get in Skitherin anymore, if they ever did.”

“I’m still trying to grasp this ‘justice’ concept,” Innit confessed. The air in the goblin gate grew momentarily darker, and there was a whoosh as five goblins appeared inside it. “Ah, more friends.”

One of the five new goblins walked out of the gate and blinked. “Where are we?”

Innit shook the newcomer’s hands. “You’re home.”

The goblin smiled. “Home. I’ve always wanted to go there.”

“That’s been going on for three years,” Jast said. His earlier ambivalence was gone, replaced with a tone of satisfaction. “Prisoners come and are set free the same day. More goblins stream in through the gate or tunnels they’ve dug into the prison.”

“What of the men I saw in the cells?” Cassium demanded. It was a testament to his self-confidence that he expected answers even after being taken captive.

Giggling goblins brought in a straw dummy wearing ragged clothes. It was smeared with dirt and had an animal pelt for a wig. Up close it was obvious what it was, but in the cells’ poor lighting such dummies had been convincing. One goblin stuck his hand into the dummy’s head and raised it, saying, “Mercy! Mercy, please!”

“No, stupid, you’re suppose to cough like you’re sick,” another goblin scolded him. “I’m supposed to make the dummies beg.”

“Sorry, I keep forgetting my lines,” the first goblin said.

Innit shrugged. “We’ll work it out in rehearsal. Magistrate Cassium, allow me to correct you on one point. You called this place The Pit, a rather bland and totally unoriginal name. My fellow goblins and I rechristened it as Goblinopolis. There is already one Goblin City in The Kingdom of the Goblins. Now there is a second. We are thousands strong here, and both our numbers and Goblinopolis grows each day as we bring in new residents and carve new tunnels and homes from the limestone.”

“The Pit, excuse me, Goblinopolis, is a third bigger than when I was first assigned here,” Jast added. He looked so sincere when he asked, “Can you believe that one of the greatest horrors of our world could be made into a place of refuge, into a home?”

“You, you’re mad,” Cassium said. “Totally insane. These, these creatures, they’ve infected your mind somehow. You have to know this won’t work. You can’t kill me! My superiors will search for me and learn what you’ve done if I don’t return.”

“When you don’t return, magistrate.” Jast grabbed Cassium and pulled him to his feet. His guards grabbed Cassium’s driver and servant. “Every man within fifty miles is loyal to me. Tomorrow I’ll send word to the capital that my men found your carriage overturned and burned, the horses and occupants missing. It’s tragic, but isolated roads like these are infested with bandits and monsters. If you were from a noble house your superiors would work day and night to find you, but a commoner, trying to rise above his station? No, magistrate, they’ll write you off as a loss, one easily replaced.”

Jast threw Cassium into the goblin gate, and his men threw Cassium’s servant and driver on top of him. Jast scowled and said, “I don’t know where this will take you, but there’s a good chance you’ll arrive in a place settled by prisoners you sent here. They’ll be most interested to see you. Mouse, if you’ll do the honors?”

“Whoo hoo!” Mouse the goblin ran on all fours and jumped onto the goblin gate, where he provided the stupidity and craziness necessary to power it. Cassium screamed as the air around him darkened and blurred before he and his men were sent a thousand miles away, where a hundred men bearing scars and whip marks never fully healed were indeed very interested to see him.

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?”

Goblin Masks

Goblins seldom have a place in civilized society, mostly because few being appreciate having their toilets trapped. Still, there has always been a tendency to blame others for your own failings, and goblins have long been a convenient scapegoat for the crimes of their neighbors. But on rare occasions goblins find themselves tolerated if not welcomed.

Goblin Masks

Humans had already settled the kingdom of Long Land centuries ago when a fleet of refugees sailed to their shores. These newcomers were fleeing war and oppression in a neighboring land. Their ships were so damaged and their supplies so low that they had no choice but to stay where they washed ashore.

King Jasper of Long Land welcomed the newcomers and did his best to settle them among his own people. Strategically it was a wise move, as Long Land had a small population and needed more citizens to work the land and defend its borders. Wise it may have been, but it wasn’t popular with either side. The original population didn’t want to compete with the newcomers for jobs, land and rare government posts. Newcomers felt they were being given the worst land to settle and denied positions of honor and prestige, effectively relegated to being second class citizens.

While both groups were humans, there were differences in their appearance. The newcomers were from a different ethnic group than the original residents, with darker skin and curly hair. Few dwarfs or elves would even notice, but in Long Land it became an instant way to tell if one was an original settler or a newcomer. The two sides sparred for the next three generations, threatening to tear Long Land apart.

The matter came to a head with King Jasper the IV (the royal family not being known for selecting original names). He was having one problem after another with his citizens, with the courts being the worst. If an original settler did not get his way in court he claimed the king didn’t care about his own people. If a newcomer didn’t get a case settled in his favor, he said the king was discriminating against him. And yes, calling yourself a newcomer is an odd choice after living in the same place for three generations, but people are like that.

Jasper the IV had finally had enough. He issued a proclamation that anyone attending a court function, be they judge, jury, bailiff, plaintiff or defendant had to wear a full costume with mask. This way no one could tell who belonged to which group, thus eliminating the possibility of prejudice. The proclamation satisfied no one. Newcomers felt they were being asked to hide who they were and original settlers viewed this as their king caving in to pressure. The people obeyed because they had no choice, but they protested the move at every opportunity.

Then goblins got involved.

Three months after the proclamation, every goblin in Long Land started wearing elaborate masks. The masks were made of leather, wood or other cheap material, but decorated beautifully. The designs were breathtaking in their intricacies, the colors vibrant, the styles dashing. Long Land had over a thousand goblins, and each wore a unique mask, some even carrying backups should their mask be lost or damaged. Many goblins didn’t stop there, making or stealing clothes that matched their masks in quality and style. They still acted like goblins, but they were at least more presentable.

One man grabbed a goblin and asked it about the mask. Quite confused by the question, the goblin answered, “I thought that’s what we were doing.”

The goblins had observed men and women wearing masks when going to court and other government functions. These masks were often bland pieces of wood painted white. It seemed to the goblins like the men were playing some kind of game. Goblins assumed these were costumes, and poor ones at that, and they set out to upstage the humans. They spent weeks making surprisingly sophisticated masks to play along with the game the humans had invented.

The people of Long Land were confused regardless of which ethnic group they belonged to. They were grudgingly getting used to this whole mask idea, even if they thought their king was mad, but the goblins’ masks were…interesting. One might even call them attractive. A few men went so far as to steal masks off goblins to use for themselves, a move that inspired jealous neighbors to ask for more attractive masks.

Rich men commissioned artists to craft them masks that expressed their wealth, using gold, silver, jewels and exotic woods. Men of more modest means copied them with simpler materials but equal beauty. It soon became a contest as to who could buy or make the most beautiful masks. Men even wore them when they didn’t need to, thus showing off their wealth and taste to all rather than just those in court. In the next few years wearing masks became so common that it did what King Jasper the IV wanted but never dreamed possible. Men couldn’t tell who descended from an original settler and who came from immigrant stock, only how much money and taste they had.

Three more generations passed, and today the people of Long Land wear masks and costumes whenever leaving their homes. These outfits display the wealth and power of the owner, and they have become as distinctive as fingerprints. Neighboring kingdoms think the people of Long Land are stark raving mad, but they are also considered hardworking and peaceful, so they put up with it. Jasper the VII (yep, still reusing the same name) is happy his people aren’t fighting, and he owns the biggest collection of masks on Other Place.

For their part, the goblins are reasonably happy with the situation. Goblins are slightly less troublesome than in other lands, as they think they’re playing a very long game with the humans. Men tolerate them so long as their behavior isn’t totally outrageous. Goblins still make masks with designs equal to their human neighbors, but sometimes come up with truly amazing masks. They keep these with them in case they’re caught by the authorities and must hand over a mask to buy their way out of trouble.

Humans in Long Land tolerate their goblins for another reason. Goblins occasionally trade away masks to get things they want, and sometimes even give them away. At times goblins will decide they like a person for reasons no one understands, including the goblins! Such people are generally poor but always of good character. When this happens, goblins sneak into their homes and leave behind gorgeous masks for their “special friend”. And if a man is willing to risk his reputation, he can hunt down a goblin and commission a mask. If the goblin agrees you never know what you’ll get, but it will be unique.

There has been one last consequence of goblins wearing masks. Under the law any person who comes to court must wear a mask and costume. As goblins wear masks and fancier clothes, this makes them eligible to go to court and present a case to a judge. This happens only rarely, usually when a goblin is involving himself in the affairs of his “special friend”. To the courts’ horror such an act is legal. This has made for some memorable cases. To this day judges shudder in terror at the precedent, and no one has forgotten the case of Goblin v Everybody named Sidney.

Houseguest

“Huzza!”

Blowback the goblin threw himself to the dirt floor of his house when the front door was smashed in. He scrambled back as the human (it had to be a human) knelt down and forced his way in, knocking over furniture Blowback had built or liberated over the years. Cheap, flimsy chairs broke. His favorite and only table lost three legs, and the fourth one looked iffy. Blowback’s collection of wigs went next, kicked into the fireplace where they burst into flames. Note to self: keep oiled wigs away from open fire.

Terrified and wigless, Blowback ran for the back door. He’d nearly reached it when the human swung his sword and got it stuck in the nearest wall. It was lodged in good, and Blowback watched the human try to pull it out. One try, two tries, nothing, and on the third attempt the sword came out so suddenly that the man lost his balance and banged his head on the ceiling. He dropped to his knees, clutching his head with both hands.

Still standing by the back door, Blowback watched the invader groaning on his floor. “That looked painful.”

The human whimpered and tried to get up, then crumpled back to the floor. With the threat to his life temporarily over, Blowback studied his invader. He was a human, all right, male, youngish, dressed in leather armor and a heavy winter cloak. The man had lost his broad brimmed hat when he hit his head, showing messy brown hair with a generous helping of dandruff. His weapon was a short sword, well suited for tight quarters and showing a fair number of nicks.

Blowback had never seen the man before today. Was he a brigand? There were some on the roads these days, and winter was making them desperate. Had someone hired a cut-rate goblin hunter? That seemed more likely since brigands usually worked in groups.

Keeping well back in case of trouble, Blowback said, “Hi. I don’t think we’ve met.”

“What?” the man asked. He sounded irritable, as people who’ve rammed their heads into solid objects often do.

“My name is Blowback,” the goblin told his guest/assailant. Blowback was short, bald, and had wrinkly pale blue skin. This would be abnormal for most races, but goblin skin colors covered the rainbow, and several colors that had no place on it. His clothes were raggedy leather garments discarded long ago by a boy who’d outgrown them. Blowback was unarmed but had a few daggers and short clubs within easy reach. Even with weapons nearby, he far preferred running from conflicts rather than fighting. The small and weak know how such battles usually end. “Who are you?”

The man struggled to his knees. “Ofenos. Oh, that hurts.”

“Nice to meet you, Ofenos. It would be nicer if you hadn’t busted up my house. Is this about that chicken, because I apologized yesterday.”

Ofenos rubbed his bruised head. “Chicken? You stole a chicken?”

“Stole is such an ugly word,” Blowback said casually. “The chicken was a poor guest, so I returned it. The farmer was so grateful to get it back that it’s currently boiling in a soup. Farmers and livestock have a curious relationship.”

“Right, no chicken,” Ofenos muttered. He regained his earlier bravado and pointed his sword at Blowback. “Dinner is off, so let’s move on to dessert. Hand over your treasure or die here and now.”

“Treasure?” Blowback looked around his home. It was a single room twenty feet across and four feet high, dug into the side of a hill. The floor was packed dirt, while the walls and ceiling were reinforced with scrap lumber. His stone fireplace was small and barely warmed the house in such cold weather. He liked his house, but among other races it would be considered abject poverty.

“Gold, coins, gems, furs!”

“I think you hit your head a tad harder than is normally considered healthy. I’m a goblin, a race known for setting traps, causing mischief and otherwise being pests. Money and goblins seldom cross paths and never for long.”

“Don’t give me that!” Ofenos’ tone was a warning, and he edged closer to the goblin. “Goblins steal. You steal chickens.”

“I was offering it asylum. You’d think it would be grateful after what happened to the other chickens, but I turned it over to the authorities after what it did to my bed. Can we get back to this treasure misconception?”

Ofenos recovered his hat and put it on. “Look, cretin, I’m in a foul mood, I have an empty belly and emptier coin pouch. Mock me, lie to me or try to trick me, and so help me blood will flow this night. I’m giving you more chances than I should given what your foul kind has done.”

Reason wasn’t working, so Blowback fell back on the ancient goblin tradition of being obnoxious. “Excuse me, but there’s a door, table and three chairs in pieces, which kind of suggests who the troublemaker is here! Did you knock, because I didn’t hear a knock before you came in like a drunken ram! How’s your head?”

“Getting better. I don’t think there’s any bleeding. It’s a known fact that monsters living at the edge of civilized lands raid towns. You’re close enough to the town of Ethos that you could spit on it, so I know you’ve been looting their homes.”

Blowback grabbed a broken chair leg and jabbed it at the fireplace. His wigs had landed in it during the initial attack, and were replaced by ashes. “Yeah, I’ve been there, and you just torched my ‘loot’, Chucko! I had three very nice wigs to keep my head warm. It’s mighty cold outside, and thanks to you I’ve got nothing to put on my head.”

Ofenos folded his arms across his chest. “Don’t give me that load of bull plop! Am I supposed to believe you’d steal wigs and pass up gold and gems?”

Blowback rolled his eyes. “Have you been in Ethos? Not walked through it, I mean been in people’s houses. Last summer’s harvest was confiscated to feed the army. All of it! Men are so hungry they’re foraging in the wilderness for small game. They’re eating ground squirrels, which are admittedly pretty tasty, but they’re still rodents! Men with gold don’t eat rodents!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Fine.” Blowback tossed aside the chair leg and marched out of his house.

“Where are you going?” Ofenos demanded.

“Outside! You think there’s money in my house? Good luck finding it.”

Blowback went out the door and came onto the side of the hill. It was dusk and cold and snowing a bit, little flakes that never add up to much. He stuffed his hands into his pockets to keep warm while Ofenos ransacked his house for treasure that wasn’t there. It was humiliating.

It also left him looking at the town of Ethos. Cooking fires burned at every house as men and women ate whatever scraps of food they could collect. A few men were still returning from distant fields and streams with snared birds, small mammals, the occasional fish and a few freshwater clams. Hunger had made them desperate, and for the first time in living memory they were competing with goblins for food.

Two more goblins hurried over. A red hued goblin with orange hair asked, “What happened? We heard a crash.”

Blowback pointed at his ruined door. “There’s a human in there trying to rob me. He thinks I have money.”

The red goblin scratched his head. “So…he’s an idiot.”

The second goblin was so covered in mismatched clothes that he had no exposed skin. He coughed up a hairball and asked, “Where’d he get a fool idea like that?”

“We rob humans, don’t you know,” Blowback said sarcastically. “It’s common knowledge, which makes me think ignorance is a virtue.”

“I’m surprised he found you,” the red goblin said. “Your front door was well camouflaged.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t leave a trail of breadcrumbs,” Blowback retorted. A broken chair came sailing out the front door to land in the thin dusting of snow. He watched it tumble down the hill and into the side of a peasant’s house. “I liked that chair. It was my favorite.”

Looking merry, the red goblin offered, “It wouldn’t be much work to bring the ceiling down on him.”

“And bury the few things I own he hasn’t smashed?” Blowback asked. “Have either of you got a wig to spare? I lost mine.”

The second goblin coughed up some yarn and shook his head. “Sorry. Is he going to attack everyone’s house? It’s bad enough you losing everything without the rest of us doing it.”

Blowback shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not even sure why he’s doing it. I’ve never seen the guy before tonight. Maybe he’s just that poor and is wandering around looking for scraps. Lots of people are doing that. No joke, I saw a woman going through the mayor’s garbage before I got there. She didn’t leave me much.”

“It doesn’t bode well, and there’s another month until spring,” the red goblin said. “What if we smoked him out? Okay, your expression tells me the answer is no, but we could at least run in there and steal his pants. Come on, you got to teach him a lesson or he’ll do it again.”

Blowback’s attention returned to the town. Most of the houses were small and made of thatch. Most, but not all. The mayor’s residence was a large stone building, and ground squirrels were never part of his menu. Goblins were as a rule troublesome, ever ready to cause chaos, and after a night like this Blowback was ready to spread the misfortune to someone who deserved it.

Ofenos crawled out of Blowback’s house. The man was dirty and looked angry and confused. “I don’t get it. The adventurers’ guild told me there was money to be had in the countryside. Bounties, monsters, treasures to discover, but there’s nothing here.”

“You’re an adventurer?” Blowback asked.

“And an experienced one!” the man yelled back. Distant men heard him and hurried off. They’d caught some food and weren’t keen on being robbed. Getting louder and attracting even more attention, Ofenos added, “I’ve guarded caravans, protected important people, hunted devil rats—”

“And after all that you thought goblins had money,” Blowback interrupted. He saw Ofenos look at the two new goblins. Eager to forestall another mugging, he said, “They don’t have money, either.”

“Where would we have gotten this bonanza?” the red goblin asked. He pointed at the town and added, “Seriously, you have to know it wasn’t from there.”

“I don’t know, robbing travelers, digging up graves, eating adventurers,” Ofenos replied.

Blowback covered his face with one hand. “He thinks we eat people. Where are you getting this from? And I want names, not this ‘everybody knows’ nonsense! Some clod is telling gullible halfwits like you that we eat people, God only knows why when there are plenty of leather scraps at the tanners in town, and idiots are buying it! We have to put a stop to this before we invite people for dinner and they think they’re on the menu!”

Ofenos hesitated before asking, “You eat leather?”

“Among other things, none of which are people,” Blowback told him.

The second goblin coughed up a button. “Sorry. I’ve been trying to get that up all day.”

Ofenos looked miserable. He lifted his arms and let them drop to his sides. “This is impossible. It’s five days walk to the next town. What do I do if there’s no work there?”

“I’d be more worried about no food there,” the red goblin said.

“I’ve got debts!” Ofenos yelled. “Talfith Bank is going to send collection agents after me soon. Costing an arm and a leg isn’t a figure of speech with them.”

Feeling just a smidgen of sympathy, Blowback said, “Which explains why you need money so bad. The way I see it, you need cash and I need you out of my life. Fortunately I see a solution to both our problems.”

Ofenos’ jaw dropped. “You do? Where?”

“Come on. You guys come, too.”

Blowback led Ofenos and the two goblins into town. Goblins and strangers with swords would normally attract attention from the authorities. Tonight, however, they had the streets to themselves. It was dark and cold, and every door in town was locked and barred by frightened residents. The men and women had eked out just enough food to keep them alive for another day, and they weren’t going to risk losing it to thieves or monsters.

They reached the mayor’s house, a stone building two stories high and large enough for fifty people. This was a curious state given only eight humans lived there. Smoke rose from the chimney and carried the scent of roasting pork. The windows were closed but not shuttered, and light streamed out onto the snowy streets.

“This is the home of Mayor Cathem,” Blowback explained. “He’s the king’s representative in these parts and responsible for maintaining order and collecting taxes.”

“And he’ll hire me?” Ofenos asked.

Blowback frowned. Ofenos wasn’t connecting the dots and would need a hand. “No. Those taxes I mentioned were collected at knifepoint earlier this month and stored in a steel lockbox, about a foot long, half as wide and three inches deep. Royal tax collectors don’t come to town until spring, which gives the mayor plenty of time to skim off a percentage for himself like he does every year. You want gold? There it is.”

Ofenos took a step back. “Wait a minute! I’m an adventurer, not a thief!”

“I’m not seeing much of a difference after you tried to rob me earlier,” Blowback replied.

“It’s simple,” Ofenos said. “Rob a goblin, a monster, a criminal or some jabbering foreigner and no one cares. Some folks will even thank you. Rob a mayor and you’re a thief. The world comes down on your head, with knights and bounty hunters and adventurers and soldiers. They won’t ask for the money back. They’ll kill you and take it off your body!”

Blowback rolled his eyes. “Amateurs. The authorities can only hunt you if they know who you are. You’re new in town or I would have seen you before tonight. If you cover up your face nobody can identify you, and if you run fast you can reach the nearest city with tens of thousands of people before anyone comes after you. Nobody’s going to find you, or even know who to look for.”

Pointing a sword at the house, Ofenos asked, “That man is going to have soldiers to uphold the law. I can take two to one odds and win, but I can’t fight an entire town’s worth of soldiers.”

“They’re busy,” Blowback said. “I paid the mayor a visit last night and trapped the toilet.”

The red goblin smiled and pointed at Blowback. “That was you?”

“Marvelous work!” the other goblin said, and shook Blowback’s hand.

“The point is, on the way out I made some passing references to living in Fenti Bog,” Blowback continued. “This morning the mayor sent his soldiers to said bog to find and kill me. They’re miles away and no doubt cold, wet and angry. So, no soldiers.”

Ofenos looked at the mayor’s house. “No soldiers.”

“No soldiers and one lockbox full of cash,” Blowback said. He went to the nearest window and waved for Ofenos to join him. “Look over there. Those are brass candlestick holders. Do you know how much those go for? No seriously, how much?”

“A couple silver pieces,” Ofenos told him. “You get more for silver candlestick holders, and way more for gold ones.”

“The point is those shiny beauties are the same as money. And I see silverware on the table, and the mayor has a gold ring. This house is like a giant treasure chest filled with goodies. I bet you could pay off your entire debt to Talfith Bank with what’s here. All you have to do is bust in there, like you did at my place, not ram your head into a wall or ceiling, grab the loot and run for it.”

Ofenos backed up. “I don’t know.”

“What else can you do?” Blowback asked. “You can walk for days with no food to the next town and hope they have work, or someone you can legally rob. You can wander around here looking for monsters with cash or treasure, except there aren’t any. The last monster in the area was a griffin with no money, no gems or artwork, just a bad disposition. The townspeople ate him. Or you can go to your bank and ask them to be reasonable, or at least merciful.”

That suggestion made Ofenos and all three goblins burst out laughing. When they finished wiping tears of laughter from their eyes, Blowback said, “I’ll grant you the last choice was a joke, but you’re out of options. Look at it this way; you’re only doing it once. Tell your friends you beat up a monster and found all that nice stuff. They’ll believe you, because they’re so mind bogglingly stupid that they think goblins eat people. Nobody will know except us, and who believes goblins? And later on, when legitimate work for adventurers come up, you can keep your mouth shut about this and take the job.”

“I, uh,” Ofenos stammered. He stared at the house, drooling at the scent of cooking food. He took a scarf from a pocket, wrapped it over his mouth, and headed for the door.

Then he knocked.

Blowback’s jaw dropped. The red goblin shook his head. The last goblin put a hand over his face. But to their collective amazement, the door opened.

“Huzza!” Ofenos ran in with his sword drawn. Men and women screamed. The goblins didn’t follow him in, instead waiting outside to watch the chaos in relative safety.

The red goblin looked at Blowback. “You talked an adventurer who wanted to kill you into becoming a bandit and robbing the mayor. That, sir, was some mighty fine work.”

“I am feeling a bit of pride right now,” Blowback admitted. He saw a chair fly through a window, sending glass shards and broken furniture across the street. “It’s actually kind of nice watching him happen to someone else.”

The other goblin picked up a broken chair leg and chewed on it. “He’s got a real talent for needless violence. He’s also as bright as a coal pile. I think that boy’s got a bright future ahead of him in politics.”

“Hey, wait a minute, there’s making fun of a guy and there’s being offensive,” Blowback said. Another window shattered, and they heard pottery breaking inside the house. “He’s sure taking his time.”

“He’s being thorough,” the red goblin replied. “I mean, if you’re going to do it, do it right.”

Moments later, Ofenos ran out of the mayor’s house with no one in pursuit. He had a bag filled with loot over his right shoulder, the lockbox under his left arm and a pork roast under the other. Breathless, he ran off into the night, never to be seen again.

* * * * *

The next morning was a time of confusion. Soldiers returned from Fenti Bog dirty, tired, dispirited and hungry. They were immediately sent out again, except they had no idea where they were going. Mayor Cathem’s steward called together the entire population of the town. These men and women frankly had better things to do in such harsh times, and it showed on their faces. Goblins gathered at the edge of the crowd to see what was going on, including Blowback.

Blowback still had to repair his house and replace destroyed furniture, no easy task for a small goblin. It could take weeks or longer, using time better spent trapping outhouses or painting caricatures of famous people on the sides of cows. Still, meetings like this could be entertaining provided he kept out of sight, so he waited for the show to start.

The steward rang a bell to get the people’s attention and then began to speak. “Good people of Ethos, last night the honorable Mayor Cathem was brutally attacked in his own home. The intruder did assault him, his servants and his cat. The intruder also stole goods valued at—”

Mayor Cathem, a short, man with long white hair and fresh bandages, tugged on his steward’s coat sleeve and whispered to him. The steward frowned and asked, “How will they know what to bring you if I don’t tell them what was stolen? Okay, okay, you’re the boss. The intruder stole goods of value from your mayor, goods that must be recovered in their entirety. Any citizen or visitor who captures the intruder or returns the goods will be rewarded with—”

Another whispered conversation followed. The steward spoke loud enough that the crowd could hear him, making for a one sided and embarrassing conversation. “Sir, you have to offer a reward in these situations. Because they’re risking their lives for you! No, I do understand, it’s just with a little work you can…fine. What if you offered a deferred reward, like reducing their taxes next year? It’s not insane! I just think…”

The steward looked like he was about to snap, and with the soldiers gone again no one was present to protect the mayor if that happened. But with a superhuman level of restraint, the steward held back his rage. “You will receive the mayor’s thanks for returning his stolen property. Thanks cannot be inferred to mean money, livestock, food, tools, kitchenware, land, reduced taxation or anything else you might actually want. That is all.”

Blowback noticed a total lack of enthusiasm among the crowd as they dispersed. They had another long day of foraging for food ahead of them, and with no incentive they had zero interest in hunting down an armed robber. The mayor and his steward shared harsh words before leaving. But as they walked away, Blowback saw the mayor’s hairline go up an inch until he pulled it back down.

“That’s not his real hair,” Blowback whispered. He grinned and rubbed his hands together. He’d lost a lot last night, including his three wigs, and it looked like the dear mayor would be helping the goblin rebuild.