18. Heroine of Old

Dorothy watched, war horns blaring through the air alongside hissing arrows, as Great Chief Tugg and his clan scattered like a flock of flightless birds into the distant treeline. One archer found his mark, striking Tugg in the upper shoulder, which caused the bulky goblin to stagger and drop Taruk's axe.

She looked down on Great Shaman Gorm, whose harsh gaze was now glossy and lifeless, while the black blood pulsing from his neck had begun to ebb. She noticed a fresh root underfoot, where the shaman looked to have tripped. Joyto's Luck, she thought. Or maybe Hreath the Plowhand really had been listening.

A surge of righteous pride surged through her, basking in her victory and defiance, but then that wave of vicious elation gave way to fear and grief.

"Mind your aim!" a familiar voice was shouting. "Don't give chase into the trees!"

Dorothy searched all around her, seeing goblins big and small fleeing for their lives, or brought down and bleeding from their wounds. And she was deeply worried what had happened to Gob. She'd thought he'd come to warn her of the poison, but what if Gob had spotted the manling army instead. What if he'd been forced to go back and try and stop them some other way when Taruk demanded he be quiet.

There had been genuine fear in the scrawny goblin's wild eyes.

It was strange to Dot that the goblin, who had always desperately wanted to speak, had been so readily brought to silence.

"Dorothy." A hand rested gently on her shoulder, and she realized this wasn't the first time her name had been called. "It's me, Harold. You've got a few cuts and bruises, but I think you're all right. I think it's best if I take you back to our camp, and have you seen to by a healer. Don't worry," he then added. "I'll make sure noone claims your reward."

Harold looked to have been hit in the head with a rock. The right side of his head was sheeted with blood. But he was smiling and looked steady on his feet. He spat now blood trickled onto his lips. And smeared the rest through his stubbled beard. "Dorothy...?" he pressed.

"Reward?" she eventually asked.

"For Taruk. The Jarl's offered gold to the weight of his head. And," he added, glancing over at the giant corpse of the once Great Chief, "looks like that's quite heavy indeed."

***

"Do you remember me?" Harold asked, leaning forward on a cushioned stool.

They sat in a makeshift tent, of tattered hide and thick branches, while around them men and women were stitching wounds and seeing to other injuries. Though it didn't seem as though the army had been particularly battered in the fighting. Likely this war would go a lot quicker and a lot simpler than any of them were expecting.

"O' course," Dorothy answered. "I'm not the one whose been hit in the head."

Harold weakly smiled. His brow had stopped bleeding, but his now pale face was still half coated in blood. "From the other day?" he then asked.

"O' course," Dorothy repeated with less patience. "Don't listen to Moira. I ain't lost me mind."

"We've not met before then...?" Harold asked.

Dorothy narrowed her eyes, because the man asked the question as if they had indeed met before. She studied his face, which was wrinkling with age, but not nearly as wrinkled as her own. And his eyes, and his kind smile, which almost reminded her of her husband's. "How should I know? You clearly seem to think so."

"Hah," he awkwardly replied. "I was born round here. Been gone for a while though. That was why I signed up for the fighting. Wanted to check on my mother."

"Oh," Dorothy asked. "'nd who's that?"

Harold opened his mouth as if to speak, but then cocked his head and said, "Moira."

"Oh... right. Well, sorry if I don't remember you. Hard to keep track with how many she managed to put out. And I ain't spoke to her in winters. Well, there was the other night, but--"

"It's fine," Harold assured, placing a hand on her own to stay her.

Dorothy crossed her arms, pulling them out of reach. "Why'd you ask?"

"Curious. I was friends with..."

"Robert?"

"No," he said with a shake of his head. "Your other son."

Dorothy scowled. "No wonder I don't remember you, then. Only had one son. Think you're mixing me up with some other old woman."

Harold met the words with a smile, that might have been sad or surprised, then he took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "Must be. My apologies, then."

"That why you were so set on me coming with you the other day?"

He slowly nodded, looking off at a groaning man now, who had been bitten in the thigh by what must have been a very hungry goblin. "Partly. But, I was genuinely worried for your safety. Apparently, it was Great Chief Taruk I needed to worry for. And his shaman, as well. I don't think folk will quite believe what happened out here. But as I say, I will make sure you get your reward. You deserve that much, at least. I dread to think how many men it would have taken to bring that monstrous thing down otherwise."

"He weren't that monstrous."

"He was nearly eight feet tall, and corded with muscles. His axe and shield are old dwarven relics. He could have easily killed a score men on his own. Leading his clan, he might well have overwhelmed our entire army."

"Well... no, I mean," Dorothy began, but then couldn't remember what her point was to begin with. "My memory ain't that bad, anyway," she decided to add. "I do remember you, come to mention it. Seen you in town once or twice back when you were a youngun. Hanging around with Robert and some other lads. Looks like it's you who's having trouble remembering," she mocked.

"Hm." Harold offered the slightest nod, but then he squinted as if dust, or dried blood, had got in his eyes. "That rock did strike me with some force." He took in a deep breath, and sighed. "I know a money man who you can speak to. He'll make sure you're not robbed or swindled after you get the gold. I can find someone to buy that axe, as well," he said, glancing at her belt.

Dorothy had picked up Great Chief Taruk's axe, though she couldn't quite figure out why. The metal was terribly dense and heavy, and the blade was very sharp. It was quite shiny too, which she did appreciate. She supposed that part of her didn't want one of the soldiers to take it and wield Taruk's weapon without ever slaying him.

"I'd happily buy it myself," Harold added.

"Look at you," chided Dorothy. "Here I thought you cared for my good health, and you're just trying to buy my axe."

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"I do care," Harold assured. "But... surely you have no use for it? And you've got that necklace for a memento."

Dorothy remembered the string around her neck. She'd forgotten that she'd grabbed his bird bone pendant as well. If Tugg hadn't ran off with it, maybe she'd be lugging around the shield too.

"What's funny?" Harold asked.

"Thinking strange things to meself," Dorothy answered. "And thank ye," she added. "I appreciate you carin'. Rare thing these days. If a less scrupulous man happened upon me, I imagine the story of what happened might come out not nearly as straight."

Harold offered a genuine smile, and it reminded her of when she was younger and she'd said something Gordon had liked. They looked so much alike she half wondered if Gordon's hands had been wandering as far as Eustace's. And then a terrible thought crossed her mind, briefly, but the thought was so terrible that she shut it away as soon as she conjured it up.

"I'll accompany you until you get the coin and you're settled," Harold suggested. "So long as you don't mind."

"For a fee, I suppose?"

"For free," he answered.

"I'll pay ye," said Dorothy. "Don't have much use for a golden head."

"They'll pay you in coins," Harold explained.

"Was a jest, Harold."

"Oh," he tiredly said. "Oh." He laughed. "My head is starting to ache. I might have to go and have a lie down."

"Best you rest," Dorothy agreed.

The bloodied man, brushed his hands together, like Gordon used to do, before pushing up to his feet. "I'll--"

Screeching sounded out, one or two goblins at first, that then grew into an awful chorus. "We under attack?" Dorothy worried.

"Oh, no," Harold dismissed, shaking his head. "The scouts like to capture the weak ones. There's a trade for it, you know. Mostly in Vendrick, but some other places as well. They sell them to vendors at Highhill. Strange business, I think. But..." He tiredly strugged. "Puts a roof over their heads, I suppose. Saves them dying after we slay the Chiefs. And the scout's pay isn't the best despite them being in the most danger. Seems unfair not to let them make coin where they can."

Dorothy stared up at the tall man, her heart beating quicker and quicker.

"You disapprove?"

"I'd like to buy one," she decided.

"Oh..." he said. "Oh," he repeated, and started to laugh, but he trailed off when he saw she was earnest. "Very well," he conceded. "I'll show you in--"

"Now," Dorothy insisted. "If you please."

***

"Gob...?" Dorothy asked of the caged goblins. "Gob?" she nearly shouted. Scores of cages were stacked ahead of her. She could see a third of their faces through the slotted metal, but her eyes weren't good enough to recognise Gob unless she walked right up close, and the scout, Earl, was already losing his patience.

"They ain't going to answer you by name," Earl mocked. "Right. Come away, then," he added with less patience. "Go and enjoy your celebration. If you still want to buy one before we leave, then I'll have one picked for you in the morning. You can call him whatever you like."

Dorothy scowled at the scout, but he met her anger with an easy smile. She took one last look at the goblins, surprisingly subdued and quiet now, but she couldn't spot Gob. She worried he was further in the back, stacked under other goblins, but surely he'd have heard her and surely he'd have shouted out. She was about to give up, when she truly saw all the other caged creatures. The one's she was trying to look past. Saw how broken and desperate they all were. Trapped and alone. "How much for them all?" she suddenly asked.

Earl had brought out his arm to usher her away, but now he stopped and frowned. "What was that?"

"How much does it cost for me to buy all of 'em. I'm due some gold, aren't I? Surely enough to buy this sorry lot."

"Well," Earl began, unsure of himself for the first time since they met, "yes. I suppose you're right. Tally 'em all up and they ain't worth much in the way of gold coins, but--"

"But what?" Dorothy snapped.

"But, well--"

"Well?"

"Well I can't sell you them all, can I?" Earl angrily replied. "Only reason I was gonna sell you one is 'cause Harold asked. One thing letting a mad old lady do what she wants with one scrawny goblin. Or if a bunch of captured goblins go missing. But I ain't about to hand over a whole clan of goblins, am I? Folk would find out, and then I'd end up with my head on the block."

"Don't be stupid," Dorothy countered. "You're selling 'em, either way. And you want the best price, surely. I'll give you all the gold I get, how's that?"

"No," he answered firmly. His eyes narrowed and he looked at her now like she were some sort of dangerous animal. "I ain't sellin' you none," he decided. "We clear? Don't want to see you hanging around here again, old woman. Harold might have taken a shine to you, but this is my business. Not yours. And I ain't about to let you set dozens of goblins loose after all the work me and mine put into capturing them. Now get lost before I let other folk know the mad things you've been asking."

Dorothy's hand rested on the cool metal of Taruk's axe.

"Don't make me hurt you," Earl warned.

Dorothy wasn't afraid, despite the murderous look in the young man's eyes, but she didn't really want to hurt him either. "You worry too much. But, all right. I'll leave you to your goblins."

"Hm." Earl offered the slightest of nods, relaxing when she raised her hand to her waist. "Right this way, then."

***

Dorothy had been led to Harold's tent, which wasn't large but wasn't small neither. She'd been waiting for a while, much longer than she'd hoped, and eventually her impatience got the better of her. She ducked low, and bent under the flap, only to find the tall man lying silently in his bed.

"Up yer get," she said. "You've got a speech to give or somethin'."

She hobbled over, her ankle giving her a great deal of grief, and tried to shake him by the shoulder. But when she saw him close up, she knew it was no good. Her heart sank, and grief welled. It was a small grief at first, but by the faint light and the angle of his face, he really did look so familiar. And then the small grief bloomed into something enormous and overwhelming, making so much pressure inside of her belly and throat that she thought she might explode. But instead she began to weep, and cry like she hadn't done since she was a little girl. And she shook, racked by her own sobs, until all the bones of her already bruised body began to ache.

Dorothy got a hold of herself, shaking over that sudden terrible grief, and silently reprimanded herself. She'd not even shed a tear for her husband. So she didn't need to lose her mind over a man she'd met once or twice. Maybe that was all it was. Maybe she should have cried back then, and at dozens of other times, and all the sorrow of her long sad life had finally caught up with her. But then she remembered the last time she'd cried, far worse than she had just now, and she saw her Robert lying just as still and pale in a dimly lit room.

He'd died. Of course, he'd died. That was she hadn't seen him for so terribly long. He'd left behind that pregnant widow. But then, Dorothy thought frowning to herself, who'd written that letter after Gordon passed that had got her so worked up? And how had she ever forgotten that her son had died long before her husband?

Dorothy swallowed, shaking her head, her eyes run dry of tears as panic and grief and wretched bemusement swirled around in her now viciously aching skull. "I'm all turned around," she hissed to herself, her voice nearly unrecognisable with how dry and choked the words came out. "Confused," she added. "I'm misremembering. It's been a long day. A long season. I--"

She took a seat, desperately trying to master a violent urge to vomit.

Taking slow and deep breaths, she managed to calm herself and regain her bearings. But now she wasn't sure what she wanted to do next. Not sure where to go.

Harold was going to help her fetch the gold, and she never even cared about that to begin with. But without the coin coul she really go back to her own life. And without Harold could she get away with not being robbed or killed for a sack of gold. Fear began to set in again, and her heart beat like a scared rabbit's.

"Ow," she hissed, now Taruk's sharp axe grazed against her skin. "Bastard," she said, not sure if she were speaking of the axe, the Great Chief, or that smarmy little scout.

Or maybe even of herself.

"I'll show him who's a crazy old woman," she then decided, marching out from the tent with the gleaming axe of a Great Chief wrapped tightly in grip. "I'll show everyone just how mad I can be."