6. Unheralded

Dorothy opened her door just a crack, the bright light outside making her eyes even less useful as she glimped the silhouette of one short, bony figure between a pair of big and bulky ones. When her sight did adjust to the light, she was most surprised not by the three goblins standing patiently ahead of her but by the fact that the smallest among them wore what looked to be a children's outfit that was once white but now stained in a myriad of reds, blues and browns: complete with frayed shorts, a button jacket, and a pointed feather cap.

"Womanling?" the garbed goblin asked.

The larger kin, flanking either side of him, wore no clothes at all, and had flat faces, their expressions equally flat and placid. But their muscles were huge, and their great fists were scabbed and scarred. One picked at their nose while another ground their heel into the dirt path beneath the broken steps. Tall as they were, they would have towered over Dorothy were it not for the stairs.

"Yes," she reluctantly answered.

"I am the herald of Great Chief Taruk. He asks, 'What do you on his land? Laying claim? Making war?'" he declared, speaking his own words in an almost well spoken if harsh pitch while repeating the message of Taruk in a thoughtful, deeper tone.

"What?" Dorothy asked, having to halt him with a raised hand when he cleared his throat as if to begin again. "I live here," she then said. "Make no claim to no land beyond me home."

"Hm." The lithe goblin smirked, baring small fangs. "This forest is Taruk's. Land, Taruk's. Home, Taruk's. You do not belong, womanling."

"I've lived here me whole life," Dorothy angrily countered, grip tightening around her iron pan.

"Crush?" the bulky goblin on the right asked ponderously, but the smaller goblin shook his head.

"Womanling," the garbed goblin spoke now in a grave tone. "You kill goblin. You take goblin. These are war things. Do you make war with Great Chief Taruk?"

"No," Dorothy answered, shaking her head. Sickly fear bubbled up inside her gut. "I keep to meself. Peace," she assured. "Tell Chief Taruk I want peace."

"Great Chief Taruk," the herald pointedly corrected. "We shall see," he then said, as if doubtful. "I will speak of these things. We will return."

"Crush...?" asked the rightmost goblin again, his eyes narrowing menacingly as he balled up both great fists.

"No crush," the herald chided. "Ugg, Tugg. Come. Follow back to clan."

The two huge goblins looked at one another, frowning as if in disappointment, but then eventually shrugged, following the garbed goblin down the dirt road.

Dorothy stood frozen, her arm slack at her side, still gripped around her iron pan, as the odd trio disappeared into the distant treeline. She'd heard tall tales of goblins who could speak better than most men, and of the Great Chiefs who ruled over multiple clans and laid claim to great swathes of land. But she never imagined that one would be sending a herald to an old woman's door to ask if she were trying to start a war. She'd thought the goblin she'd bested was big before, but now this new pair stood twice as high and twice as wide. Dorothy wouldn't have even a sliver of a chance if that messenger came back and decided it was time for them to crush. Maybe it was about time she did start packing a bag. She was planning to at least eat the food that Young Gil had brought before she made any decision, but maybe she should leave that as an offering for this Great Chief Taruk instead. In the hopes that he didn't decide to have her hunted down when she fled.

***

Dorothy was half way through packing, one sack full of her sentimental things, and the other full of supplies, as she pulled out everything she owned and sorted through it as well and as swiftly as she might.

When another knock sounded at her door, it was faint enough that she was happy to discount it. But when the second strike was more insistent her heart began to beat very heavy in her chest. She wondered if this Great Chief Taruk lived closer by than she might have otherwise imagined. And if he and his followers were back to avenge their fallen kin.

Hesitating, Dorothy considered jumping out of her window, but she'd heard that goblins could smell folk from far off, and she doubted she'd manage to escape without making a sound. Like as not, she'd be spotted and dragged out before she was half way through the shutters. So she decided in the end to answer the door same as before. The clothed goblin had been able to speak well enough at least, so maybe she could reason with him if not this Great Chief. Surely they'd be able to understand that an old woman being on their land didn't pose much risk to any of them.

She grabbed her pan, despite thinking it wouldn't be of much use, and headed towards the door. But when she heard a familiar sniff of distaste and impatience, she realized, almost with regret, that she had a different kind of visitor. The kind you couldn't beat round the head without falling foul of a law or two.

Stolen story; please report.

"Hurry up," Moira demanded from outside her home, tapping her boot on the stairs. "I know you're old, Dora, but surely you can move quicker than that." Her voice was just as whining and demanding, and made Dorothy just as mad to hear. That she still insisted calling her Dora after all this time infuriated her as well. Dorothy had never understood the name. Something to do with her and the nickname being adorable. But she reckoned it was just one of those things that people said that made just enough sense for noone to question it. When in fact their true reasons were entirely petty, and Moira had only ever made up the name to annoy her. "Gods above, I don't have all day, you know. Gil said you were hurt but he didn't say you'd suffered two broken legs."

"Coming..."

"I can hear you, Dora. You're not moving."

"Maybe you're going deaf."

"You're the one with the bad ears. I can hear, and see, quite fine. Now I only--"

Dorothy stepped forward, to open the door. The sun had begun to set outside, so it didn't take long for eyes to adjust to the dusky afternoon.

Moira had stayed tall despite their similar age. Her blond hair had gone silvery grey, and her cheeks were gaunter than ever. But she was still standing defiant and proud, wearing a long blue summer dress that she'd no doubt acquired as a much younger woman. "Gods," she muttered. "You truly do look awful. Sure you're not a draugr?" she quipped.

Dorothy bared her teeth. "Gil's mistaken. Don't need your help."

Moira's keen gaze focused on the iron pan. "Planning on beating me? Or scared I was another goblin? Gil said you'd been talking tall tales about brawling with monsters. That the blood, is it?" she asked, waving towards a discoloured patch of dirt and grass. "Looks like you crushed a rat to me. But Gil will believe anything, won't he? Told me you still insist on calling him Young Gil."

Dorothy scowled. "So...?"

"So?" Moira mockingly echoed. "His dad died winters ago, you silly woman. He told you but you keep forgetting. Next you'll tell me you've forgotten you stabbed Eustace."

Dorothy found her cheeks flushing with anger, and her hand wrapped tighter round the pan's handle. "'Member that just fine."

"I always thought it was cute," Moira added. "The way you doted after him. And him being kind as he was, no wonder you got the wrong idea."

"He's the one--" Dorothy angrily began.

"Yes, yes," Moira's eyes widened sardonically and she shook her head. "Of course, Dora. Of course. He's the one who took a shine to you. Desperately fancied some tired mutton when he had fresh venision at home. Never you mind all that. The past is in the past, I always say. Best to move on and forget about these things. We're both older now. Widowed. Does it really matter who tried to steal who's husband?" She offered a broad smile. "Well... are you going to invite me in?"

Dorothy's cheeks had turned fully red. Moira was telling lies so quick it was hard for Dorothy to know which she should bite back against. "No."

"No...?" Moira asked as if genuinely surprised."It's getting dark, Dora. You can hardly expect--"

"My name ain't Dora!" Dorothy growled. "'nd you ain't welcome in me home. Now get gone before I see to you like I did the goblin."

Moira tutted. "You truly have turned feral," she remarked with a cruel smirk. "I had heard once the mind goes the mood does as well though. But I should warn you, wounds or not, I won't be coming back here. I plan on heading into town in the morning and never looking back. There's an upstart goblin kicking up a fuss. Forcing good folk out of the forest and killing those who refuse. Rumour is they might have to put a call out for men to come and take it's head from it's shoulders. But I think best I leave this awful forest behind me. Nothing here left here but mad crones and bad memories. Still... if you manage to calm yourself down, it probably is best that we travel together. Roads are hardly safe, and you're not going to be able to stick around here for much longer."

Dorothy crossed her arms, and slowly shook her head. "Not going nowhere with you, Moira."

"Don't be silly," Moira dismissed. "I'm sorry that I raised your hackles, Dora...thy. I was just reminiscing about old times. Who knew you'd still be so sore about things after all these winters. Eustace was an old pervert. Maybe he did put his hands where they didn't belong. You made sure he paid the price for that if he did. Surely you're not going to have an old woman sleep out in the cold, are you?" she pressed amicably. "Even if you don't want to travel together, I can hardly make the journey safely by night. Let me sleep in the kitchen if you must, and I'll be gone by first light."

Dorothy's temper started to lessen. It was hard to hate someone, no matter how proud or spiteful, once the fear crept into their eyes. But then what if Gob came clambering back through the kitchen. That would be a hard one to explain to Moira and to the village, who would hear of it a dozen times over from her wagging lips. "Fine," she grumbled. "You can stay in the sitting room."

"There we are," she declared, lightly clapping her hands together in excitement. "Gil said he'd fetched you some wine...? And I suppose you may as well make use of that pan since you're so fond of it, and whip us up something to eat. I always did think you were a reasonable cook. You've certainly been eating well by the looks of you!"

Dorothy's eyes narrowed as she stood blocking the door.

"Dora -- come on now," Moira said, proferring her hands in mock surrender. "What's a few jests between old friends?"

"Should have told 'im to hunt you," Dorothy muttered, stepping back and letting the taller woman enter.

"What was that?" Moira asked.

"Never you mind."