When a goblin died in service to the Machines Works, they were said to be re-assigned to an eternal shift in the Spirits Works. There, they’d work with The Makers on their impossible machines of light, glass, and mist. Meanwhile, the deceased goblin would have no use for whatever tools served them in life and so their belongings were redistributed. Like their very lives, it all belonged to the Dread Lord, anyway.

It seemed death and re-assignment to working under an orc War Master received the same treatment. Tad bought Keg to a slow trot as he approached the workers’ barracks and saw his few possessions strewn across the lawn. One goblin inspected a compass which was scratched and a little rusted where the bright red paint had worn off, while another was peering into the mouth of a canteen tightly wrapped in cloth.

Not even waiting for Keg to stop, Tad dove from the boar at the browsing goblins. “Give me those,” he shouted as he snatched the items away. As he pocketed the compass its needle dug into his thigh, making him wince. He threw the canteen’s strap over his shoulder and let it bounce off his hip. He began picking through the mess sprawled across the grass: a screwdriver he’d repaired himself, an empty bottle of blue glass he’d found deep in the Machines Works, and lots of stained and ripped clothes.

With his tusks poised to gore, Keg dutifully chased away goblins who wandered near Tad as he picked through his stuff. He also ran after workers innocently exiting or entering the building. After a while a trio of goblins, all from the brood before Tad’s and so several years older, gathered by the front door of the barracks. Each brandished a knife and watched Keg with sneers of displeasure.

Tad recognized one of the goblins. “Hey, Scup,” he called as he snagged Keg’s reins.

Scup squinted at the boy. He relaxed his hold on his blade’s handle. “Tad? I heard the orcs killed you last night!”

“Took on a whole War Party, I heard,” one of the others commented.

The third one hid his dagger behind his back. “Is Glum alive as well?”

“Yes. Glum is alive,” Tad answered in a growl. “I hope nobody redistributed his stuff.” He shoved a mallet picked from the ground into his toolbelt. “We didn’t fight a War Party; we were recruited by one.”

The three goblins burst into laughter. One dropped his knife on the ground as he doubled over in a giggling fit. Another had to brace himself against the barracks’ door frame.

Scup dabbed at his eyes, still clutching his blade, as he gasped for breath. “I can think of only one orc insane enough to take a couple of our kind into battle. Hohza, right?”

Tad nodded in confirmation, which kicked off another round of laughter. For a moment, Tad considered that any orc would start throwing fists if his War Master were insulted by others. However, Tad was no orc, and he was outnumbered and under-armed. He looked at Keg, who was digging trenches in the lawn with his tusk. For just a moment, he considered he could sic this battle-hardened boar on the goblins, but instead opted to just pat the animal’s back and let the others tire themselves out. After all, he wouldn’t need to deal with them again any time soon.

Eventually the trio, satisfied that Keg wasn’t some wild animal disrupting operations, wandered off. When they wandered away, they wished Tad good luck, but even Scup’s voice had a tone of mocking disbelief. Once they were gone Tad picked through his stuff in peace. These items, which he’d accumulated throughout his life, seemed less precious now that they were thrown across the lawn instead of collected in a chest by the foot of his bunk. He grabbed them up and scrutinized them, wondering whether they’d do him much good as a warrior. Eventually he settled on just a handful of things which he wrapped up in the best of his clothes and strapped them to Keg’s harness.

When Tad dropped into Keg’s saddle the compass jabbed his thigh again. Amid grunts and groans as he twisted his arm to dig the device out of his pocket, Tad considered what use drawing circles would be to an esteemed War Master like Gohta. He flung the compass into the grass and then directed Keg toward the Central Keep. They’d only gotten a few steps away from the barracks before Tad pulled the reins to stop the boar, who snorted in frustration.

Tad climbed off the animal and wandered back toward the barracks. He trod over yellowed shirts and shiny spanners, eventually finding the hint of bright red paint hidden among the green blades of grass. He bent to pick it up, then stood a moment, cradling the little device in his palm. It was the first thing Glum had given to him, back when Tad was fresh to the Machines Works.

Enamored by the clean circles on the schematics he was working from, Tad tried several times to recreate them. However, he grew more frustrated with each wobbly, misshapen squiggle he drew with chalk. When he found the collection of failed attempts on a wall, Glum produced the compass to show Tad how they were supposed to be done, saying “you don’t always need the right tool for the job, but it helps.”

There was a good place for it on his toolbelt. Tad placed it there and returned to Keg. Maybe he wouldn’t need this compass in service of Hohza, and maybe the compass was truly the possession of the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows, but Tad was going to keep it as long as he could.

It was late afternoon by the time Tad arrived at the Keep. The shadows were faint as the sun had drawn away, not that it ever came very near. When he arrived at the front gates an orc, after laughing at seeing a goblin report as a member in a War Party, directed him to a side entrance. Tad was apprehensive as he approached the winding path of loose stones descending a steep slope, but Keg barreled down. While Tad choked the reins, leaning against the controlled slide of his boar, he considered that Keg must have been this way in the past to have such familiarity with the precarious steps.

They landed on a muddy lot. There was a more accessible entrance at the back which lead to the orcs’ training grounds; an unlikely approach for an invader. A host of animals, mostly war horses and oxen for trolls, were tied to posts. Tad wandered the rows of steeds until he spotted one aged wolf napping between a horse, mostly black with white streaks across his flank, and a buffalo with red-tinted fur and shaggy hair hanging over his face.

“Greybrow,” Tad cheerily called. The old wolf lazily opened one eye to acknowledge his name and then went back to dozing with his head laying across his folded paws. “Nice to meet you,” Tad said to the horse and ox towering over him. The two were agreeable, playfully licking and sniffing Tad as he tied Keg up with them.

The side entrance was sculpted to resemble a wraith with outstretched arms. The figure’s horned skull looked down from the top, with the shoulders and arms forming the arc. At the base their cupped, bony hands waited for offerings. A couple of small daggers and coin from foreign lands were left there. The boy paused when he saw screws bundled with twine in the sculpture’s left palm. “Have it your way, Glum,” Tad groaned as he rummaged through his pockets. He pulled out a couple of washers and dropped them in beside his boss’s offering.

Past the arch was a tunnel lined with candles, each held by a macabre sconce of a wraith’s hand. The candles’ flames were black, rimmed with white, and they let off a purple glow. It seemed an unnecessary thing to light the hall using enchanted fires, but he supposed it spared anyone the tedium of lighting or replacing the candles.

A short way in were a pair of trolls. They had gray-blue skin with thick, cracked folds. Tad craned his neck to look up at their yellowed tusks which curved down to their chins before jutting forward. They were covered in scale mail that strained to contain their bulk and bulky polders over their shoulders. They were both armed with pole arms that would probably be unwieldy in the cramped corridor.

“Name,” the troll on Tad’s right asked. His voice was such a deep rumble that it took Tad a moment to recognize the request as something other than a belch.

“My name?” Tad gulped. “It’s uh … I’m Tad.”

The troll’s chest heaved as he breathed in and out while considering Tad’s response. His breath, humid and stank, buffeted Tad.

“Who do you serve?”

“D-dread Lord Withering…” Tad’s throat was suddenly parched. He coughed. “Dread Lord Withering Sorrows.”

“This guy thinks he’s funny,” the troll on Tad’s left commented. He smacked the butt of his weapon against the stone floor. The strike echoed against the walls. “Of course you serve the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows! If you didn’t, you’d be dead by now. Which member of the War Council do you serve?”

“Hohza,” Tad firmly answered.

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“That sounds about right,” the one on the right grumbled.

“He had another goblin with him earlier,” the left one said.

“I would expect four more after this one.”

Tad cocked his head to the side. “Why?”

“Because you’d need four goblins to equal to meat of just one orc! A small one at that!” The trolls had a good, long laugh as they clutched their weapons to their chests. When they finally stopped, they remembered they had been dealing with Tad.

The one on the right pointed his weapon down the hall. “Down there, through the doors.”

After some over-enthusiastic nods to show he understood, Tad dashed between the trolls and headed down the hall. Once safely away from the trolls he turned and was surprised to have already gone so far that not only could he not see them, but he couldn’t see the light from the entrance, either. A wraith’s keep was rife with their power, which could do funny things to one’s sense of place. He stepped back a few more paces, wondering whether the tunnel had stretched without his noticing or if the Dread Lord’s magic was upsetting his sense of how long he’d wandered this seemingly endless hall of black-flamed candles. Then he turned, and his nose slammed into a door. He fell back, landing on his rear.

“Wraith magic,” Tad groaned as he rubbed his nose.

Tad rose and pushed against the doors. The hammer, screwdriver, and mallet on his toolbelt wobbled and banged against his thighs as he did. For a moment he wondered, as his feet just kept sliding along the cold stone floor, Tad wondered if he was supposed to be pulling. A quick glance at the door frame showed it opened inward, and he just wasn’t strong enough.

He gnashed his teeth and his shoulders burned as he pressed the door, which had a gritty, rough texture to it that dug into his fingertips and palms. The door finally budged. Shouts crept through the open crack but fell silent as the door announced Tad’s arrival with a piercing screech as it scraped the floor from the goblin’s continued pushing. Someone on the other side effortlessly yanked the door the rest of the way. Suddenly pushing against nothing, Tad stumbled and crashed onto his knees.

The room was filled with mostly orcs, some trolls, and one other goblin. To the side was a wide window which overlooked Hangman’s Forest. The moon hung in the sky, lighting the treetops with blue. On the far side was a broad green double door with an ornate gold inlay that gave the impression of swimming fish. Troll guards holding pole arms stood on either side of the door. They looked just like the ones Tad encountered earlier, except these were also wearing helmets that pinched their heads.

In the middle of the room were Hohza and Yurzan, paused with their weapons drawn. This was the first time Tad had seen Hohza’s sword out of its scabbard. It glowed blue and tiny lighting bolts cracked across its surface. Gohta was prepared to join the fray, sword on the hilt of his sword, while Glum hung back.

“Here he is! The second of your ridiculous new recruits,” a troll grumbled. He had his hands on his hips. Strapped to his back was a long, wide, flat blade that eclipsed even his colossal frame. Although the room was lit by the same magic candles as the hall before, this troll carried his own lighting; cutting through his silhouette was a golden feather which hung over his chest by a chain around his neck.

As Hohza turned to Tad his glowering stare down of Yurzan became a broad smile. “You made it!” He sheathed his sword and walked away from Yurzan and the troll. The two looked to each other and shrugged.

Glum approached in a slow shuffle, aided by his walking screw.

Hohza knelt beside Tad and placed his hand on his shoulder. He looked to the two troll guards. “This is the other addition to my War Party, as reported to the Keep this morning. He is to be granted access to the War Council and sit in the presence of Dread Lord Withering Sorrows.”

“Yeah, sure,” one of the guards grumbled. He rolled his eyes under his too-tight helmet.

“A Machine Works goblin in the war council.” The troll with the slab of a sword stepped forward. He balled his hands into fists as big as Tad himself. “What good is that?”

Throwing his arm up to point at the troll, Hohza answered: “These two goblins are smarter than your War Party combined, Bigrummar! Their advice will be invaluable.”

“You could have used them last night to advise you not to fight without your only backup.” Bigrummar looked at Gohta. “Who runs out on their own War Master?”

“I was ordered to go!” Gohta surged forward, but Hohza stood to brace and silence him.

An argument ensued between the orcs and troll. Tad couldn’t pay attention, as Glum leaned against the boy. “I was hoping you’d miss this.”

Tad’s cheeks burned with sudden anger. “Why? I can handle myself.”

The old goblin sighed. “Of course. Of course,” he said, his voice trailing off. Then: “It’s kind of like ‘Ottis and the Punctured Pipes,’ right?” He offered a hopeful smile.

That story was about the hapless goblin getting caught up in a battle between three War Parties attempting to hunt skeetergators in the Pipes Works. Each party was convinced the others played pranks on them when, in fact, they’d all fallen victim to the goblin’s inept attempts to repair leaky pipes. Although Tad embellished the battle in his telling, Ottis always did the proper goblin thing and hid. After the orcs knocked each other out, Ottis piled them up to dam the leaks so he could finish the repairs. “I guess,” Tad said.

Bigrummar addressed the warriors, reminding them that Hohza often disrespected the Dread Lord and was only allowed to live because of his companionship with Toran. The crowd murmured disapproval.

“This is no place for goblins.” Glums hand shook as he tried to pull Tad back by the shoulder.

“I can handle myself,” Tad growled as he shrugged off his boss’s hand.

Bigrummar jammed his hand against Hohza’s chest. The orc stood firm and drew his sword with Gohta joining his War Master. The overweight orc’s blade glowed red and sizzled the air around it as though it had been freshly forged. The rest of Bigrummar’s War Party grabbed up their blades, save the troll himself, whose sword was too big to swing around in this room. Yurzan drew two knives from his belt.

Tad turned side-to-side, looking over the collection hanging from his toolbelt. There was a mallet that might stub an orc’s toe if he swung hard enough. He pulled it from the loop it hung from. Tad raised the tool into the air. The wooden, rounded head practically shined as it reflected the combined red and blue light of the enchanted swords.

Bigrummar pointed at the goblins and guffawed. “I have to hand it to you, Hohza,” he said, wheezing for breath. “They’re a good weapon after all! Your enemies will laugh themselves to death.” He held out his other hand to his comrade. “Yurzan, give me a knife.”

“Bigrummar,” Hohza warned, his voice stern.

“Don’t worry, I won’t harm your little pets,” Bigrummar said.

Yurzan produced a shiv which had been tucked into the cuff of his glove. It was a jagged chunk of metal fashioned into a crude weapon. He slapped it into his War Master’s open hand, where it vanished in the troll’s meaty fist as he closed his fingers around it.

Bigrummar took a thunderous step toward Tad and Glum, glaring down at them. The two goblins instinctively backed up, their hurried shuffling barely covering the distance that the troll effortlessly made. He outstretched his arm, turning his palm down, and opened his fingers. The shiv dropped to the floor.

“Pick that up,” Bigrummar commanded the goblins.

Tad stared down at the knife and nudged it with his foot. He stowed the mallet on his belt. Licking his lips, he began to bend over.

“We don’t take orders from you!” Glum slammed the tip of his cane into the ground. The big troll and Glum stared each other down with venomous sneers.

“Leave them alone, Bigrummar,” Hohza said. Although his hand no longer gripped his sword, the tension in his tone made it clear he wouldn’t hesitate to throw down as they’d been on the verge of doing.

“You’re the one who brought them into your War Party,” Bigrummar answered. His gaze didn’t waver from Glum. “Can they even pick up a tiny little dagger, let alone fight with one?”

“We’re not here to fight,” Glum said. He prepared to knock away the dagger with the end of his cane.

Tad held out his hand to still his boss. “It’s okay.” In his mind, Tad was enacting the triumphant moment in his Ottis story, when the odd goblin picked up an orc’s sword. Tad placed his hand around the handle of cloth stained brown by blood and sweat, closed his fingers, and pulled. It was heavier than it looked! Was this thing made of solid lead? The blade scratched its way along the stone floor as Tad feebly dragged rather than lift it.

Aware of the guffaws of the orcs and trolls around him, Tad grabbed ahold with his other hand and managed to pick the blade off the ground. He waved it about in the air with all the skill of a drunken orc for just a moment before a sharp edge peeking from between the wrappings nicked his palm. Tad yelped as he dropped the weapon. The sound of it clattering against the floor was drowned out by the laughter of the crowd.

When Tad he looked away from the warrior he caught a glimpse of Hohza’s disappointed face and understood why Glum had hoped he was locked out of the meeting.

The laughter ended once the two troll guards opened the green doors. Their muscles bulged with the strain of pulling them by huge brass rings. The orcs and trolls filed in. Yurzan retrieved his dagger off the floor, sneering at Tad as he did.

Hohza and Gohta lingered, letting everyone enter the council room before them. Tad hoped they’d go in ahead of he and Glum. Maybe then he could take Glum up on his offer to flee the Keep and head toward some far flung corner of the domain.

When Hohza looked to the goblins, Tad winced and looked at the floor to brace himself for a scolding. “Some advice for the council,” Hohza said. Tad looked up, afraid to smile in thanks for not having his embarrassment addressed. “Although you may be so inclined, do not be ceremonial; no kneeling or bowing or kissing the Dread Lord’s hand. He’s impatient and only interested in information during these meetings. Give quick, specific answers, do not be afraid to say you don’t know an answer, or, if it’s a guess, let him know how confident in it you are.” He paused and looked into the meeting room beyond the double doors. “Although you should hope that the Dread Lord doesn’t address you at all.”

Tad and Glum nodded their heads in understanding. The Dread Lord sounded better than some of the Directors they’d dealt with in the Machine Works, and those goblins didn’t have to power to zap a servant into dust.

Hohza and Gohta entered the council room.

“If the Dread Lord does address us, then let me do all the talking,” Glum said.

“Yes, boss,” Tad answered. He hung his head low again.

Glum took a couple of steps forward, stopped, and looked at the young goblin. “I’ve seen you lift wrenches heavier than that weapon.”

“Yeah,” Tad answered, still pouting.

“It’s just that those were precision tools made by goblins. Not some chunk of metal an orc fashioned into a weapon. Yurzan is so dim he’d likely try to use your mallet on a screw.”

Tad imagined the sight. Ottis had done something similar in the story ‘Ottis and his First Day,’ although in that tale he’d hammered a compass into a board since he couldn’t find any nails. Tad patted the pouch on his tool belt where the compass was held. At least he wasn’t as dim as Ottis, or an orc. He’d been lucky to have Glum around to show him how to do things right.

Glum winked at the boy. “Come on. Best not leave the Dread Lord waiting.”