Things moved quickly after that. In a state of mild shock Purse let himself be hustled down the stairs in the lead of the goblin hunting party. He followed Lightfoot who strode confidently into the dark abyss. Purse counted seventy-seven steps before they reached the base of the stone stairway.

They were in a rectangular and low-ceilinged hallway that travelled in a straight line away from the base of the stairs. Illuminated by a hundred hand-held glowworm lamps, the hunting horde followed this hallway for over an hour. At regular intervals they crossed neatly cut intersections with carved doorways.

As a dusk iron, Purse marched at the front. Feeling extremely out of place alongside the Chief and her lieutenants. He was almost running to keep pace with Lightfoot and the other dusk iron hob’s long strides. Heavy footsteps were falling behind him. He risked a glance over his shoulder, and made eye contact with Legbreaker. Purse flinched and swung his head back to face the front, pumping his legs a little faster. He tied not to hear the low chuckle emanate from behind him.

The perfect symmetry of the rectangular tunnel had not changed, and they must have passed over forty intersections with other passages. Sniffing the air, it remained the dry stale air of long abandoned caves. So, Purse was surprised when the Chief directed they turn left upon reaching the next intersection. The fear that he had sealed over during the march broke free and came roaring back up his spine.

They reached the intersection and Lightfoot strode through the doorway without pause, he carried no lamp and disappeared into the darkness. Purse hesitated as he approached the portal. Straining his eyes to see more than a few feet into the inky darkness. A boot planted itself between his shoulder blades and sent him tumbling through the entrance. Scrambling to his feet, Purse deliberately did not look back. Legbreaker’s laugh echoed in the tight tunnel. The other dusk iron hob shoved past him as he was getting up, not eager for the same treatment.

This tunnel was cut with the same rectangular symmetry as the main tunnel they had been following. It was narrower and would only fit four hobs marching abreast. The other dusk iron hob had slowed down and allowed Purse to catch up and overtake him after a few minutes of travel down this hallway. Knowing Lightfoot was somewhere ahead of them, Purse was confident in going ahead of the larger goblin. If he impressed the Chief, he would get to pick his first share earlier than the hob.

After a quarter-hour they reached another doorway. This time, Purse made sure to stride through confidently though internally he prepared to dive out of the way of any surprise attack. None came. He had emerged at the top of another staircase, this one narrow and only wide enough for two goblins. To either side of the staircase, cut into the stone, were long benches descending all the way down to the bottom. At the base, a flat open space of chipped and stained stone.

“The colosseum.”

It was the Chief, she had come through the portal behind him. The small landing at the top of the stairs was getting crowded with the dusk iron hob, Legbreaker, Sticky, and another of the lieutenants entering from the tunnel. Before Legbreaker got any ideas, Purse started to descend the stairs.

When he reached the floor of the colosseum, his lamp reached far enough to illuminate Lightfoot in dim blue light. He was sitting cross-legged in the centre of the chipped and cracked floor.

“The first to arrive little Purse?” he drawled.

“I wouldn’t seek to claim so Lightfoot. You have led the hunt this far.”

“Such humility,” he laughed, “I hope you never become a hob. Goblins get all arrogant and grumpy when they do.”

Purse didn’t know how to respond to that, so he said nothing. Lightfoot seemed content to let him. The stream of goblins continued down the stairs and goblins started to lay about in the open room and across the tiered benches.

The chief was inspecting an especially chewed up section of the arena floor. She looked pensive. Purse looked away. Better not to be caught staring for too long at those capable of bursting your head like a cave melon.

The dusk iron hob approached Lightfoot and Purse where they waited in the centre of the room. Ignoring Purse he sat down facing Lightfoot. No one said anything. Unfortunately, that gave Purse time to ruminate on his terror. It was overwhelming and he needed to focus on something else.

“They say you’ve a two-fold blessing. That true?” he said abruptly.

Lightfoot raised an eyebrow, “Few of your stature are quite so direct with a hob, little Purse.”

The thus-far silent hob’s fist crashed into the side of Purse’s head and he went sprawling across the floor. “Know your place upstart,” he growled, glowering at Purse as he sat back up.

“A fine example of a hob you already prove yourself to be,” Lightfoot said to the young hob though he was grinning at Purse, “and to you – upstart – I am indeed blessed by both the Lady and the Priestess.”

The dusk iron hob paused his glowering to gape at Lightfoot. Purse did too. It had been a stupid question to ask, few were forthcoming about their blessings. The less others knew of your capabilities, the less likely they were to be overcome. There were exceptions of course. Legbreaker bragged openly about his Blessing of the Brawler, of which his size and strength was the first boon.

“Don’t looked so shocked younglings. The way I see it, when we three are off to bait a gloomweaver, you two’re coming out the other side either dead, or blessed.”

“I could get a blessing?” the hob – who Purse had decided to refer to as Grumpy – asked.

“Oh yes. That’s the real value of drawing the dusk iron. Why do you think I always make challenges until I get one? I’ve got enough loot stashed that I’d never have to raid again.”

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

That in itself was another unspoken rule broken by the strange hob. To freely admit the existence of an extraordinary stash. Though by the dismissive tone in his voice, Purse doubted whether the stash held as much value to him as it would to any other goblin.

“To be challenged in isolation. By isolation. That is the true value of the dusk iron. How better to draw the eye of the Goddess’? Make of yourself a beacon of virtue and they will give you their blessing.”

“How is Legbreaker’s Brawler a virtue?” Purse asked, ignoring Grumpy’s glare at daring to interrupt a conversation between his betters.

“In the moment of his blessing he must have embodied and exalted in the nature of the Brawler so thoroughly that the Lady was forced to take notice,” he paused for a moment, “that’s my theory anyway.”

“So, others think differently?”

Before he could answer they were interrupted by a commotion at the top of the staircase from which a steady stream of goblins still descended. Shouts and screams, not just of the goblin variety were audible from inside the tunnel.

Purse’s fear swept back through his body in a wave, the conversation had provided a brief respite. The lieutenants and high-ranking hobs around him were heading toward the base of the stairs, eager for a fight. The room was well lit now by half a hundred glowlamps held all throughout the cavernous space. Purse could see the large form of Legbreaker halfway up the staircase when a small pack of mangy cave tigers burst out from the tunnel in a spray of gore.

They crashed into the goblins at the top of the landing – half a dozen Coppers form the look of them – who braced for impact with whatever weapons they possessed. Rocks and clubs availed them naught and all of them, goblins and tigers went tumbling down the steps.

Yelps, screams, and laughter echoed through the cavern. There was a moment of stunned silence as most of them came to a stop in a heap at the foot of the stairs. A few goblins and a tiger had deviated from the narrow staircase on the way down and ended up sprawled across the wide stone benches. The tiger landed near a crowd of Silver goblins, most of who wielded at least a dirk or short spear. It was set upon immediately by a dozen goblins. It likely never regained its feet.

Legbreaker surged upward from underneath the pile of goblins tossing them aside like playthings. He gripped a limp tiger by the scruff of the neck. Two down. Purse had counted three. Casting his eyes around rapidly, he spotted it scrambling out from underneath the pile of groaning and dead goblins.

The goblins who had been lounging across the benches in the stands were descending in leaps, hungry for some glory in what was now to be a certain victory. The tiger retreated across the arena floor, away from the small army of goblins were charging toward it. Heading straight toward Purse.

The tiger didn’t appear to be injured by its fall. There was no outrunning it. Purse would have to hold his ground. He could see neither Lightfoot or Grumpy out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps they were using him as a shield. Smart. Too late to change positions now.

He was holding his sharpened rock in his left hand and a broken short spear in his right. It was little more than a wooden stake but it would have to serve. When the tiger got close, he would throw. He had to make himself appear dangerous, then the tiger might run past, looking for easier prey. It was close. He hurled the rock.

It cracked into the forehead of the mangy beast, splitting open a shallow cut. Or had that already been there from the fall? Either way, it didn’t change course. Purse braced himself. The beast ducked lower in its stride, committing to the leap. Purse dove to the side, doing his best to keep the small stake between him and the best as they both leapt into the air. It was his only chance of mitigating a swipe on the way past.

At the same moment Lightfoot appeared, as if from nowhere, in full stride and slammed into the midair beast with meaty smack. The tiger was knocked off course and Lightfoot reeled back from the heavy collision, a bloody dagger gripped into his hand.

Purse watched from the ground as Lightfoot regathered his footing and charged to where the beast lay stunned, several feet away. At his approach it tried to regain its feet, mouth open in a silent roar. Lightfoot plunged the dagger into its throat.

Dusting himself off, Purse stood up, in awe of Lightfoot’s martial prowess. The mess at the base of the stairs was slowly untangling itself as goblins got up and assessed their wounds. Purse spotted several broken bones pushing through the skin amongst the smaller goblins.

The Chief stood up from her inspection of the damaged floor. She didn’t appear to have taken much notice of the cave tiger incursion.

“Is everyone arrived?” she asked. There had been no more entries since the cave tigers’ dramatic arrival.

“Cave tigers usually travel in larger packs than this Chief,” said Lightfoot, “I’d guess the rest of them are off chasing any of the laggards.”

“Alright. ‘Bout time we got set up then.” She gestured to the pile of now mostly unmoving goblins. “Get this lot laid out in the middle of the arena. Once we’ve got the gloomweaver in here, the bodies will draw her in further.”

Purse crossed to the pile and grabbed the leg of a dead goblin. It hinged unnaturally at the thigh when he lifted it. He started dragging the goblin toward where he had been sitting with Lightfoot and Grumpy moments before. The dead goblin woke up and screamed. Purse stopped pulling on his broken leg, dropping it to the floor. He screamed again.

Purse went back to the pile and picked up another goblin. This one was definitely dead, deep wounds from the cave tiger had cut his throat and chest to ribbons. He also picked up a short spear with the head snapped off. Dragging the corpse back past the broken-legged goblin he tossed him the broken spear and the bloodied torn shirt of the dead goblin. The Broke-Leg nodded his thanks and Purse continued on his way.

With almost two-hundred goblins remaining, it didn’t take long for the bodies to be looted and moved to the centre of the cavern. Purse had regathered his sharpened rock and found a new short spear with a sharpened bone tip. It was valuable weapon that he likely wouldn’t have been allowed to claim had he still been a Copper. He kept his old wooden stake though. A goblin could never have too many sharp objects.

“Once we lure the gloomweaver in here she will go straight for the feast. I need any goblin with throwing weapons on the fifth level of the benches. If you are too weak to throw from there to the centre of the room, give your weapon to someone who can. If any throw falls short I’ll crack you myself,” the Chief paused to glare at her horde, “then I need anyone with melee on the fourth level. Spears space yourselves evenly throughout. We’re making her climb to get at us. If she’s big, she won’t be able to get proper footing.”

Purse gulped at that, is insides turning sour. Lightfoot clapped him on the shoulder and grinned down at him. Purse jumped. He hadn’t realised he’d been there.

“Once she picks a side to attack the rest of us swing round and close her in on all sides. We can’t let her escape. Approach from the sides and back along the benches. Do not allow the fight to spill onto the arena floor. Gloomweaver’s are fast, she will run circles around us if we give her room to move. Platinums and Golds, sit on the seventh level. As soon as she is engaged, use the space on the seventh to get around and join the fight fast. And remember, attack the head, attack the arse. The venom sack sits on the underside of the body close to the head. Do not puncture the sack or we’re doing it all over again. That’s it. Get moving.”

The crowd of goblins burst into action around Purse. Excited chatter going up. They had a battleplan and the way the Chief speaks makes it sound like foregone conclusion. Purse shook his head, somehow, they fell for it every time. Himself included.

“Dusk irons,” she beckoned Purse and the others forward, “it’s time. Fetch me a spider.”