15. Unsettled

Dorothy had been seated amidst the scores of noisy goblins, who were now slurping and chomping and gibbering all around her.

She sat opposite Great Chief Taruk, his broad shoulders and muscular frame mostly well above the table, as she towered over her even when sitting on a sturdy chair. Tugg sat her left, cross legged on a pile of broken wood, because his seat had swiftly snapped, whilst the herald, his wounds scabbed over and quickly healing, sat to her right, perched on one of the kitchen stools. He had lost the feathered cap he wore before, and his ears were large and conical like a bats, twitching this way and that.

The sun had begun to set, and the air had grown cold, so Dorothy began to feel cold in her summery dress. But the warmth of surrounding campfires drifted back and forth, keeping her comfortable enough with the fickle waves of heat. The air stank of bitter smoke, and earthy sweat. The goblins didn't stink in the way that men did, but instead had the scent of animals. It reminded Dorothy of her visits to a farm many winters ago.

"Here," hissed the cloaked hook-nosed goblin from the kitchen, who Dorothy had come to learn was the clan's shaman. "For you."

She thought it strange that Great Chief Taruk and his seemingly closest kin had yet to be served, while the rest of their clan feasted all around her. Stranger still, that of those four yet to eat, she was the first to be served.

Great Chief Taruk watched her, his small fangs protruding past his upturned lips. "Eat," he gently suggested. "You are safe. We are all safe."

"Wouldn't be so sure about that."

Taruk shook his head. "You are under my safeguard, womanling. I was foolish before. I let my anger for other manlings blind me. I never had cause to mistreat you."

"Dot hides," said Tugg to her left, his eyes still level with hers despite him sitting on the ground. Dorothy found the comment odd, because the bulky goblin seemed to rarely speak, and because she was surprised he knew her name. Or Gob's name for her, at least. "Tugg protects."

"See," Taruk added with a surprised smirk, "you are under many safeguards."

"I won't protect you," said the messenger to her right. "Small goblins need to look after themselves. Taruk and Tugg can protect us both."

Three more goblins, mostly small and skinny, emerged with three more steaming bowls, setting two ahead of Taruk and the messenger whilst the third was placed in Tugg's lap. From what Dorothy could tell, they were all eating the same thing: a stringy soup full of a strange mix of barely edible herbs, assorted vegetables, and scraps of many different kinds of meat.

She found herself quite hungry, but soon worried she was about to eat some goblin less fortunate than Gob.

The Great Chief supped from his bowl without hesitation, setting it down to laugh at some whispered joke from his messenger.

"You're very pleased with yerself," Dorothy then said to Taruk. "Surprised you'd be happy with peace. After all the manlings done."

Taruk's expression turned grave. He eventually nodded. "You speak harsh truths. But I cannot turn back the moon. Ugg is dead. Many others with him. How many manlings could we kill? All those in the Midderlands? And then...?"

Dorothy didn't have an answer to that.

The Great Chief let out a regretful sigh. "Then more manlings come. And more. And yet more. How many lives can I bare to lose? How many can I bare to take? So... yes," he finished, more happily. "I am indeed pleased. For myself. For the clan. For all our kin."

Dorothy had never met a leader before. Not a Jarl, or even a small lord. She'd had harsh words for local officials often enough, but she'd never spoken with the sort of person who decided what wars were fought and who lived or died. And now, speaking with the Great Chief, she felt guilt. Guilty for how reasonable this monster seemed. And how he didn't even realize his peace wasn't worth the paper it was written on. "I--"

"Dot!" Gob stood next to her chair, grabbing at her dress. "Chief Dot! Come, quick--"

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"Gob," Dorothy snapped, pulling his grimy hand off the white cloth. "Be quiet."

"Importance!" he countered. "Dot--"

"Gob," Taruk cut in, his voice hard like iron. "Be quiet. Do that."

Gob's dark eyes were wide and pleading, but his lips stayed firmly sealed. He sighed to himself, and scampered off towards the house.

Dorothy watched the scrawny goblin go, not sure if she should chase after him. Or what she would even say might even say next.

"Chief Dot," Taruk then said. "What were you going to say?"

"Why are you callin' me that?" Dorothy demanded, her cheeks flushing with sudden anger. "Mockin' me?"

The Great Chief sat back, frowning as if in contemplation. "It is not mockery," he eventually answered. "You are a Chief. Of a very small clan. But I have seen worse Chiefs. Better, of course. How would you have me name you?"

"Doesn't matter, does it?" Dorothy asked as answer. "Not like we'll be seeing each other again after this. Call me Dot. Chief Dot. Womanling. Do as you like."

"I see you too carry anger," Taruk replied, almost sadly. "But this is what I wished to speak of. I would ask you to join our clan. As Chief. Serving the Great Chief."

Dorothy sat frowning up at the towering goblin.

"You will be safe," Taruk added. "You can teach things to the younglings that we have forgotten. We can craft you a home in the manling fashion. Gob will remain in your clan. I will keep you close at hand so that no misunderstandings occur. So that neither of you are mistaken for... food. If you find other goblins who wish to serve you, then they can do so as well."

Dorothy's frown deepended. "That some sort of bad joke?

"I do not joke," the Great Chief assured. "I do not mock. You are wise, Chief Dot. Like a shaman. You survive out here despite lack of strength or speed. I will gladly welcome you to my clan. In truth, I much prefer the food you prepared to our shaman's as well."

"Don't need yer pity or yer help," Dorothy snapped.

Taruk's lips twisted in displeasure. "We all need help. Goblin and manling alike."

"Not me," Dorothy insisted. "I don't need noone. I had a husband, and I had a life. Now I'm fine on me own. Don't need to start over."

"Chief--"

"I ain't no Chief! I saved one goblin, one night, on a mad whim. I don't care what happens to him, or to you. And I won't care when the manlings get here and cut you down to size."

Taruk glanced away from her, discomfited for the first time since they'd met. "The manlings are not coming. These are goblin lands now. Stay here if you wish. Or leave to be with other manlings. I did not mean to provoke you, womanling. I thought my offer was a... kindness."

"They ain't your lands, Taruk," Dorothy angrily went on. "Ain't mine, neither. The manlings'lll never let you lay claim to what they see as theirs. That letter you got is a lie. There's more men on the way. A whole army. And they're all coming here for you. To cut you and your kin to pieces. So thank you for yer kindness, oh Great Chief," she mocked. "But soon enough everything will be back how it was. And you and your clan will be too busy trying to save themselves to worry about an old woman like me."

Taruk sat up very straight, coughing slightly, and regarded Dorothy with a mix of confusion and rage. She felt afeared by his wrath, but felt guilt for the hurt she saw in his blue eyes as well.

Dorothy didn't know why she'd been so harsh with him. Or why his offer, which was indeed a kindness by any standard, had so enraged her. People had taken pity on her, her whole life as if that was some great favour. But it wasn't. Because them pitying her at all was the worst kind of insult to begin with.

The messenger leaned forward, regarding them both, as if worried by her dire predictions, and as if waiting for the Great Chief to speak on the matter.

Great Chief Taruk cleared his throat. "Woman--" He beat one fist against his chest, and coughed again. "Womanling. If you speak the truth then--" He coughed more forcefully, beginning a fit as if food were lodged in his throat. "Water," he demanded in a strangled tone. "Sapo," he said to the messenger, more desperately now. "Bring--"

The messenger set off running, shouting for the shaman, who was watching from the top of the kitchen steps.

Taruk choked in earnest, making awful strangled noises now he desperate tried to slurp the broth from his soup. Then he spat the liquid out instead, and stared down at the bowl in anger.

"You've been poisoned," Dorothy realized aloud.

Taruk met the words with a trembling and furious gaze, and he reached for his masterwork axe. He pushed the table aside, weapon ready as if he meant to kill Dorothy. But then his right knee buckled, and he toppled to the dirt instead. Spluttering his last breaths and pawing at the earth, the Great Chief soon lay awful still and awful dead.

The entire clan had risen to their feet, shocked to silence, and they all watched with a childlike mix of fear and hope waiting to see if their leader would rise.

"Treachery!" hissed the shaman, now he hobbled amid the stunned onlookers. He stood over the great corpse of Tarek. "The womanling has poisoned Tarek!"