16. Redressed

Dorothy's whole life she'd had people telling half truths and lies about her. Ever since she was a youngin folk had, had a burning desire to whisper behind her back and gossip at her expense. But never before had a lie been so boldfaced and put her at such great risk. She'd waited, as the shaman's cruel slander carried through the surrounding goblins, for one of them to point out that the womanling hadn't even cooked the meal. Hadn't even been near the pot. And, if she had, why would the shaman not warn Great Chief Taruk about it to begin with. She waited for one of them to state the obvious fact that clearly the shaman must have poisoned him. He made the meal. He knew about herbs. He must have had a reason to try and assassinate their leader.

Dorothy looked to the messenger, his gaze doubtful as he regarded the shaman, and she knew that he knew it wasn't her. But he said nothing. Tugg still sat cross-legged, watching Dorothy, while he slowly placed his bowl on the table. She looked around for Gob but he was nowhere to be seen. Maybe that's what he was trying to warn her about. Maybe he'd finally had enough of her foul moods and lack of patience and he'd ran off to go find some nicer old woman to live with. All the while, the shaman's words were echoed, shifting from a question to a fact.

"Womanling poisoned Taruk? Womanling poisoned Taruk!"

There was a part of Dorothy that had no fight left in her. She'd gone her whole life not standing up for herself as she'd liked, but this was different. This wasn't the sharp tongue of a bored woman, or the wandering hands of a lecherous man. This was a horde of goblins who thought she'd just murdered their powerful leader not by strength but by cowardice. It wasn't even life or death. It was how badly was she going to die.

"That's a lie!" Dorothy shouted, the words coming out weaker than she hoped. "Trickery!" she declared, remembering the words the other goblins had used against her that first night she'd saved Gob. "Shaman poisons Tarek! Shaman makes food! Shaman poisons Tarek!"

The cloaked shaman bared his teeth in a cruel smirk. "Manling trickery. Womanling trickery. Trust shaman. Eat womanling!"

"Then I challenge you!" Dorothy roared. "I challenge the shaman. Womanling challenges shaman!" she hastily corrected. "Chief to Chief!"

The hook-nosed goblins cruel smirk faltered, but his eyes narrowed. Surely even as aged and frail as he was, he must have thought he could best a beaten up old woman.

The gathered clans seemed confused by the contrary accusations, as if they couldn't reconcile what a lie was. And were happy to go along with any order or explanation.

"Shaman says--" the cloaked goblin began.

"Chief to Chief," Tugg's deep voice rumbled through the clan. "Is not. Shaman to Shaman. Is this. Do that."

"Great Chief Tugg has spoken," declared the messenger, his high voice carrying loudly and proudly. "Womanling Shaman fights Great Shaman Grom!"

Great Chief Tugg, ascending to his leadership without question, had bent down to pick up Taruk's masterwork axe. When he rose to his full height, there was a twinkle of mischief amidst his squared features and dark eyes. And he offered Dorothy the faintest of smiles. She wondered for a fleeting moment if the simple brute had been the poisoner, after all. But then the goblins around her began to make space, a circle of open ground forming between her and the cloaked shaman, and Dorothy's focus soon shifted to how exactly she was going to survive.

***

Dorothy didn't own many weapons. She'd inherited blades and bows from her husband, of course. But she'd left those things tucked away in a trunk with old clothes and old memories.

The bow she did take with her had been kept on the mantle of the fireplace, and hadn't availed her much for walking or for fighting.

So she chose, for her duel against the lying shaman, to wield the iron pan. It seemed fitting to her that if things were going to end. Then they may aswell end as they began.

With an old woman trying to beat a goblin senseless with something almost as old and battered as her.

She'd lived a long life. That was what she thought before. A good life. These things were still true. She only wondered what this part of her life could be called. It wasn't how she envisioned ending her days. She'd always thought her heart would give out one night like her father and mother before her. She wondered what her husband would think, what her son would think, or even her grandchild who she'd never even met. Would the youngin cheer her on? 'Smack that goblin, grandma!'

Or would she regret ever meeting the mad old woman from the woods. Would her son fear for her or shake his head in shame. Would Gordon be proud of his wife for standing up for herself or be upset she'd stuck her neck out so far for a goblin of all things. But then that was how all this happened, she realised. There was noone here to witness her fighting. Noone here to cheer from the sidelines of this strange goblin duel. She'd not had anyone to support her in so long she'd almost forgotten what it felt like at all. And she found herself searching the ferile, bony faces of the raucous crowd for the familiar wild eyes of Gob. He would've cheered her on if he was here, surely. 'Chief Dot! Fight! Fight!'

Gob was right that she'd never lost a duel. And Dorothy was an old woman. She might still make habits but she was too old to break them. She could only hope that her winning streak was just beginning.

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

"Shamans ready?" called the messenger, standing on Tugg's shoulder. They both stood to the left of the crowd. The scores of other spectators had given them a wide berth, along with half a dozen other fearsome looking goblins who Dorothy guessed were once Taruk's Chiefs.

Great Shaman Gom, as the herald had called him, stepped forward into the ring of clear ground. He took the cloak from his hunched frame, his green build wiry and scarred. He then stepped forth, a rag covering his hips, both hands wrapped around his gnarled staff. "Ready!"

Dorothy swallowed, her throat unduly dry. She gripped tighter to her pan, which shifted in her sweaty grip. Beads of moisture trickled from her brow and into her eyes, making her sight even worse than usual. "Ready!" she managed to shout.

Gorm stalked forward, his stride much more confident, and his muscles rippling with the movement. He was far swifter and stronger than Dorothy had imagined.

He moved to her right, and she stepped to the left, both facing one another and circling. The slight smirk on the shaman's ugly face grew broader as he approached.

Dorothy took a few careful steps back. Gorm ran forward, swinging broadly, setting her so far off balance that she nearly twisted her wounded ankle. Dorothy bit down on a scream, limping away from the shaman. She was already getting bone tired and if the pain in her leg got any worse she wouldn't be able to stand let alone walk.

Dorothy turned to face the shaman, both hands on her pan. He slowed as well, standing just out of reach.

"When do you fight, womanling? " he mocked.

The gathered crowd offered scattered laughter but more grunted as if in displeasure or confusion.

"Come and get me," Dorothy suggested, hoping he'd rush in and give her some opportunity to strike.

Gorm stepped forward, bringing down a mighty overhead swing, and Dorothy realized his reach was far greater than hers even despite her slight advantage in height. She tried to step back again, twisting her ankle, and cried out in earnest.

The shaman bared his fanged teeth, and his gaze grew keen and vicious. He swung again, left to right, in a broad strike.

Dorothy had no choice but to try and block it. Wood struck iron with a great and resonant clang, the vibration near sending the handle straight out of her hands.

She just about held her footing, as well as her grip, and answered with a reckless swing that the shaman easily jumped back from.

Gorm hissed laughter.

'Well this is going well,' Dorothy thought. "Brikorhaan lend me your shield," she invoked, praying to the Eleven Elders for the first time in as long as she could remember. "Joyto gift me your Luck. Ilma stay your weaving. Muradoon close your Eye. Hreath bless the land where I'm soon to bury this wretch," she finished which she came up with all on her own, as folk rarely had cause to beseech the God of Farming in a duel.

"Be quiet!" Gorm snarled. "Face your death in silence. Your curses will not help you, womanling. You will end this day in a pot just as I seered."

"My pot. My pan. My land. Won't be seerin' once I put you in the ground."

"Fight!" Tugg boomed from afar.

Gorm hadn't been riled by her words like Dorothy hoped, but he did glance around nervously when the new Great Chief's demand was echoed by an increasingly angry chorus.

The shaman lunged, staff leading, but Dorothy parried the blow with her pan. The force drove her off to the left while the goblin wheeled to the right, both coming to face one another on opposite sites. Dorothy lunged, hoping to sweep out the shaman's knee but her ankle twisted again with a pain that robbed her of her senses.

Next she knew she was face down in the ground, huffing in dirt. She started to choke, pushing herself upright, now the shaman jeered above her.

Head lifted on elbows, she tried to rise but a great weight of wood slammed down into Dorothy's spine, ripping the air from her lungs and smashing her head into the earth.

Gritting her bloody teeth, Dorothy forced herself to roll, narrowly avoiding a second strike that then thumped into the mud. She hurled her pan at the shaman, which span wildly in the air, clipping the goblin's brow with the handle to leave a nasty gash. Gorm staggered back while Dorothy snatched out for his staff, trying to rip it from the stunned goblin's grip. But his hands tightened around the shaft, and she dragged him towards her instead. The shaman stumbled forwards, tripping and landing on top of the old woman.

Robbed of breath once more, Dorothy struggled under the goblin before he fully regained his senses. She found herself smiling at the thought of how folk had long been calling her forgetful. But this time, at least, she'd remembered something. Something important.

The importance of always carrying a knife.

Gorm struck a heavy blow into Dorothy's brow, his bony hands breaking her skin, and then his fanged teeth snarled forth to savage her. But Dorothy had wrested free her concealed blade, which she sheathed once more in the shaman's throat. Up through the neck and under the jaw with a teeth snapping, bone grating impact that stopped the goblin's momentum short.

His small dark eyes watched her with futile rage and fearful confusion, before she finally managed to shove the goblin to the side, where he spluttered black blood out on the earth.

"Womanling Shaman wins!" the messenger declared, his words clearly surprised.

A confused murmur rippled through the crowd around her, and Dorothy wondered if she might still die. But then the words of Great Chief Tugg boomed through the air.

"Gorm poisoned Taruk," Tugg announced. "Womanling Shaman avenges! Womanling is new clan Shaman!"

Dorothy had only just about got to her unsteady feet, and was still struggling to catch her breath. She saw a few hopeful smiles among the goblins, which was reassuring, but then a war horn sounded out from the forests surrounding her home, sending fear and bemusement rippling through the gathered clan.