Tryle felt queasy. He lay on his belly overlooking the sprawling meadow. The sharp, resinous odor of crushed pine needles filled his nostrils. Back in the village, pine needle tea was a common remedy for upset tummies, but there was no tea-making going on here.

The rest of the raiding party was spread out around him, also flat on their stomachs. They had been there since sunset. At night, hiking down the hill was nearly impossible without torchlight, and Chief Jrunta had not wanted to risk them being spotted before the raid even started.

So the goblins had been lying in wait, completely still except for the occasional cough and picking of noses. On Jrunta’s orders, nobody ventured too close to the tree line.

Long after the sun had sunken beneath the horizon, the forest was cool and quiet, the stillness broken only by crickets chirping in the undergrowth.

Now darkness had completely fallen. The atmosphere was tense. While chatter was restricted to topical comments like “How much longer?” and “My butt feels kinda itchy”, Tryle could tell the goblins were keyed up and giddy.

But unlike him, they were excited for what was to come.

The majority of the goblins had donned black masks with slits leaving their eyes exposed. All of them had small rucksacks slung over their shoulders (smaller ones than the packs they’d used for the trek through the woods), each rucksack carrying two or more rolled-up burlap bags. After all, the objective was to bring back as much treasure as they could carry.

By now, the moon had fully risen. Off to his left at the center of the party, Tryle saw a shadowy figure prod the shoulder of another — Jrunta indicating to Yorin that it was time. Yorin cupped his hands in a blurred approximation of formless motion; a birdcall lilted into the air.

At his signal, the raiding party rose and slowly advanced to the edge of the tree line. There, they split into three groups.

Jrunta led the first: the infiltration team who would spearhead the actual break-in of the cottage and confirm what it held inside. His right-hand goblin Graddle took charge of the second group watching from the perimeter, ready to add more manpower to the ransacking if needed.

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The third group, the reserve team, would wait at the edge of the field and serve whatever backup they could offer. Members of this team had no specialty, no experience and high standing in the tribe, or had simply not been chosen to be part of the other two teams. All the reasons why Tryle was one of them.

Eleven others goblins waited with him. Tryle knew them by their faces (Lundy village was small enough where you could count those you’d never spoken to as familiar acquaintances), but in the shroud of night and his memory, they were a shapeless Blob.

Tryle sat atop the low rock wall as Teams One and Two hurried across the dark field. The Blob engaged in sibilant, mind-numbing chatter below him, which Tryle tried to endure for as long as he could.

“Whaddya think they’ll find?”

“Yorin said coins. Said he heard them janglin’ in the bags.”

“That’s not all — he said he smelled ‘em.”

“Said he saw ‘em, too.”

“He did?”

“He did.”

“I didn’t hear him say that.”

“Well, he did.”

“I heard there’ll be gold crowns in there. With emeralds and rubies and talcum and all kinda jewels in there. We’ll be like kings, y’know?”

“Idiot, talcum’s not a jewel. It’s just a stone.”

“It is, too. A precious stone. I read it in a book somewhere.”

“That’s precious metal, and talcum’s not one of them.”

“I’m tellin’ you, I read it.”

“Numpy, you couldn’t read a book if it grew a mouth and started tellin’ you stories at bedtime. You ain’t foolin’ anybody.”

From his perch, Tryle turned around and hissed: “Would you all be quiet?”

“Who wazzat?”

“Sounded like Tryle. Had that annoyin’, high-pitchiness to it.”

“Shaddap, Tryle. Why don’cha build yourself a horse-cart to carry your warty butt outta here?”

Minus the warty butt, Tryle was about to reply that the scenario sounded pretty tempting, but he held his tongue.

He peered into the darkness. Nearly half an hour had passed already, and there was still no sign that the raid had made any progress.

“What was the cue for help, again?” he asked the Blob, wondering if they’d missed a signal.

Most of them ignored him, but one helpful voice said: “Think it was a two flint strikes. But I’m not sure if it was just ‘help soon’ or ‘help now’.”

Tryle considered his options. If he signaled a question to the forward teams with the flint and steel, the sparks might alert the granny in the cottage. Not worth the risk. However, the longer they spent out here, the more dangerous it became.

He grabbed his rucksack and slipped it on. “I’m going out there. All of you watch for help signals, will you?”

The Blob began to protest — “Hey, where d’you think you’re goin’?” — but Tryle had already hopped off the rock wall and begun to scamper across the field.