10. Misbegotten

"What you're gonna do," Dorothy said, "is go back to Taruk. Back to your clan."

Gob was shaking his head, a long scarf still draped over his shoulders. "No, no. Us clan. Taruk bad! Dot good!"

"We ain't a clan, Gob. No clans 'tween goblins and humans. Manlings," she corrected. "Or womanlings for that matter. I got no room for you here."

"Gob no room," he happily countered. "Small. Very small!"

"Well I'm leaving, either way," Dorothy grumbled. "Off to live with the other manlings. So you've nowhere else to go."

Gob's wild features tightened in distress. "No leave, Chief Dot. Gob will be... not safe. Danger! Gob dies!" he all but screeched.

"You'll be fine. Better off than ya are now. Taruk told me you'd not be harmed."

"He is a lie! Not truth. I run from dead. Taruk make war. Taruk shaman want sacrifice. For bad magic! Sacrifice is Gob!" he declared with wide terrified eyes. "But Gob is small -- quick! He runs. Runs. And runs more running. New sacrifice -- yes! But Gob still dies. I am truth, Chief Dot. I am truth! Trust Gob! Pleasing!"

Dorothy's head started to throb. The more panicked the scrawny goblin got, the more shrill he spoke. Not that his desperation didn't pull at her heart strings, or that she didn't feel awful for abandoning him in such a state of distress, but there wasn't much she could do. Gob wasn't safe here. He wasn't safe with humans. And by the sounds of it he wasn't save with his own kind, either.

"Hear me?" Gob pressed in a hopeful tone. "Trust Gob?" he asked, baring his fangs in the slightest of smiles.

"I believe you, Gob," she admitted. "But there's nothin' I can do. Manlings won't have you. Your clan won't have you. Taruk wants me off his land."

"There is," Gob assured, nodding to himself. "There is you can do, Chief Dot. Fight Taruk. Taruk dies!" He grinned. "Great Chief Dot!"

Dorothy met the words with a doubtful stare. "How do you suppose an old womanling is supposed to slay Great Chief Taruk?"

"Hm." Gob cocked his heed. "This is... question. Very big. Not strong. Not quick. Taruk greatest warrior! Womanling... not. How do, Chief Dot? We know?"

"It was your plan, Gob."

The scrawny goblin simply shrugged, pulling the scarf from his neck and stomping it into the dusty floorboards. "Gob not knowing. You Chief. You are knowing."

Dorothy scowled at down at him, then started packing away more of her things.

Gob was watching her hopefully, scratching idly behind one hear. "So...?"

"So what?"

"Dot fight Taruk? Yes. Chief to Chief? Protect Gob!"

"I might," she answered and was surprised that she didn't even feel like she was lying. "Best I pack some bags in case I decide otherwise."

"What all this mean?" asked Gob quizzically.

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"Never you mind."

"What do now?" Gob asked.

"We pack, then we sleep. And try to figure out how an old woman is supposed to slay a giant goblin."

"Oh!" Gob excitedly shouted. "I am knowing, Dot."

Dorothy frowned. "How?"

"Chief to Chief!" he declared the same as before. "Or else. So many to one. Not good!"

The old woman simply stared without patience at the wild-eyed goblin who smiled hopefully back at her. "Not good," she unhappily agreed.

"But take care," warned Gob. "Great Chief Taruk is strong. Most strongest! Always winner. Chief to Chief!" he added, his cat-like eyes glazing over with what looked like a mix of doubtful confusion. "But..." he began breathlessly. "Chief Dot is also always winner! So both can always win!" he surmised, looking quite relieved with his own conclusion.

Dorothy didn't quite follow his logic, but she couldn't deny she had indeed won a duel. One she'd also had no hope of winning. So maybe an old woman really could slay a Great Chief.

***

Dorothy had packed a single bag full of her most treasured possessions, which were thankfully not numerous nor overly cumbersome. She'd taken a few changes of clothes as well, and a blanket and bedroll if she needed it. The weight wasn't too great so it would be easy enough to carry and she'd made peace with leaving the rest of her things behind. That was, if she did decide to run. She'd still been wracking her brain trying to think of how she might defeat a goblin far younger, far larger and far stronger than she was.

She'd come up with three ways, but neither one of them was fool proof.

There was Gordon's old hunting bow, which she might be able to re-string and use to kill Taruk at a distance. She could fashion a trap of some kind and hope to maim Taruk and finish him off. Or she could poison the Great Chief instead. But she reasoned that neither one of these three choices, even if they did kill Taruk, would help her much at all. The goblin clan might pay her some credence and respect if she really did beat their leader to death with an iron pan, but she doubted they'd look too kindly on an old woman using cowardly methods to kill a Great Chief.

Not to mention there was a part of Dorothy that didn't want to kill him at all. He didn't seem any different or any worse than plenty of other men she'd met over the years. There were brigands and bandits more who were just as murderous and not as well spoken. Wasn't that long ago that these forests really were considered goblin lands. When Dorothy first moved here with Gordon there were barely any other people around at all. Most other folk lived back behind Ragni's Divide, the great fortified river that had always served as the dividing line between goblin and human lands. But countless winters had passed since the days of Ragni the Red and her kind had encroached further and further into the forests that were once off limits to humans.

If any Jarl or lesser lord had made some ancestral claim and took it by force he'd be lauded for restoring his birthright. Great Chief Taruk would be hunted instead.

"Have you lost your mind, woman?" Dorothy whispered to herself. "First you're sheltering 'em, now you're sympathizing with 'em. Get gone before you get eaten."

"What say?" asked Gob excitedly, dashing into the sitting room. He carried a cup in one hand, connected to a red ball by a piece of string. It was a simple toy, but it had thankfully kept the scrawny goblin quiet and entertained for a long while. "Oh." His wild features bunched together, and he began to snuff. "Blood. Goblins. Hide...?"

Dorothy was puzzling what he meant when she heard heavy footfalls coming quick down the dirt road. "Oh," she echoed. "Hide," she agreed.

She headed towards the kitchen, grabbing her iron pan and belting a sharp knife, while she took a deep and steadying breath. She was surprised to find herself unafraid, and slowly filling instead with clear-eyed determination. If the goblins had come back to kill her, she wouldn't go quietly. She wasn't going to freeze up again like she had with Taruk. Dorothy had always stood up for herself, and there was no need to live in fear of losing a few more meagre winters.

Swift steps ascended the steps beyond the kitchen, and a soft knocking rattled the door. "Womanling," a voice quietly said.

Dorothy stepped forward, opening the way and then taking a step back, one hand on her pan the other on the knife at her belt.

The herald, still wearing his colourful children's clothes stood ahead of her. Though now half of his ear had been bloodily cut off, while a nasty gash gleamed black on his shoulder.

The red blood of humans had been smeared across his fangs. "Womanling help?" he hopefully ventured.