The goblin still has his arm raised, and the bow strings are still taught. I don’t want that arm to fall.

“Who are you?” the goblin officer asks. His voice is deep and slow, like the mountains themselves.

I’m not sure who the question is directed to but I’m the leader of this little group so I step forward. “My name is Sir Ethan Gambrils of Astria. I’m here to see the goblin king.”

“Many orcs have tried to reach the king. None have returned.”

The bow strings pull back a little further.

I waive my hands vigorously. “No, no. Not like that. I just want to talk. I need his help actually.”

“Now is not the time to seek our charity, human.” He pauses. “Or demand it.”

“He comes in the name of the Maker,” Cyrus thunders, his words somehow stronger than any arrows the goblins have. “Would you dare challenge the Maker’s chosen?

The goblins stir, shifting their attention to the cleric, and even lowering their bows a smidge.

“Explain yourself,” their leader says, still composed.

“I am Vicar Cyrus of that Maker’s temple and I have not journeyed through snow and orcs to get threatened by goblin archers. If you wish to shoot us then do so, and answer to the Maker upon your death.”

That strikes me as an awfully bold statement, and I can’t say that I share the sentiment. I look at Myran and the elf also seems somewhat dubious – alright, a lot dubious.

The goblins are shaken though, like they’re the ones with arrows pointed at them.

“My apologies, Vicar,” their leader manages, and motions for his troop to drop their bows. “We haven’t had many travelers in these parts and the ones we have had do not come in the Maker’s name.”

“Mostly we just get orcs,” grumbles another goblin bitterly. The officer shoots him a quick glance which may not have been as deadly as an arrow but was just as sharp.

“You are relieved,” the goblin leader says curtly.

I’m stunned, but the goblins aren’t. The perpetrator just bows his head. “Sir, my apologies –”

“Get out of my sight,” the officer says curtly. “I’ll address your behavior at our barracks.”

The goblin salutes and walks into the tunnels. Head down and ashamed.

“Is it safe for him to go that way?” I ask. “We heard fighting a little while ago.”

“Probably,” the officer responds, only now looking directly at me.

Only probably???

“You have been chosen by the Maker?” he asks me directly. “For what purpose?”

“I’m going to save Astria and free his lands from the grip of the sorceress.”

I hope that sounded more convincing to him than it did to me.

The goblin walks toward me. He smells like a man who hasn’t bathed in days. So probably like me at this point.

“Bold words from one so young.”

“As I told you –” Cyrus begins.

But the goblin holds-up a hand this time. “I was rude to you earlier, Vicar Cyrus. You have my apologies. But I request some of your patience because I have to investigate your claim. Just as you have your duty, so I have mine.”

The goblin speaks with the perfect mixture of deference and seriousness, somehow communicating his utmost respect for the cleric as well as his unyielding determination to figure out exactly who I am.

This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

“So, Sir Ethan,” the officer continues, “please tell me how you intend to accomplish this noble mission. If you are chosen by the Maker as the cleric says I’m sure the Most High One has given you a path to walk.”

‘The Most High One’? Is that a nickname or something? Like calling a lover ‘sweetheart’?

I pull myself up before the gruff officer. It definitely helps that I’m taller than him. “I broke the onyx stone, defeated the elven dryad, secured the aid of the elven army, and entered the elven Tower of Magi to secure the aid of light magic against the sorceress.”

Then, just to drive the point home I extend my hand and loose a narrow beam of light. It’s little more than a child’s flashlight but it proves the point.

The goblin gapes, and looks to the cleric, like someone seeking spiritual enlightenment.

Cyrus smiles. “Is your duty satisfied?”

The goblin licks his lip, the red tongue flirting across like it’s trying got taste the magic. “Sir Ethan, I would be honored to escort you into mountain.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Can you take me to see the king?”

The goblin bows low. “I cannot. It would not be appropriate for someone in my place to escort you into the throne room. But I assure you others will once I testify to your presence.”

“So you’re not going to shoot us then right?” Myran adds jocularly. He stayed to the side during the confrontation and seems to be enjoying the nervous goblin.

The goblin quakes a bit. “My apologies for my behavior, Lords. We were on watch tonight and it was our duty to patrol. If we had not accosted you then we would have failed our duty and if you had been in league with the orcs we would –”

Cyrus puts his hand on the goblin’s shoulder. “We understand, friend. You were doing your duty and thank the Maker you were. Now we can get a much-needed escort. The orcs already attacked us once and we do not wish to encounter them again.”

The goblin relaxes. “Thank you, Vicar, for your understanding. And my condolences on encountering the orcs. I’m told they will be dealt with soon, and the mountain paths will be safe for innocent travelers to pass once more. As they should be.”

The goblin sounds awfully casual about the orcs. ‘Dealt with soon’ like I ‘deal with’ laundry or ‘order’ Chipotle. After fighting the orcs myself I have a hard time believing it will be so simple.

“I’d love to hear more about the orcs,” Cyrus says. “Perhaps you would be so good to tell us as we walk.”

The goblin officer is only too eager. It’s like he’s still trying to make amends for his behavior and tell us everything he knows. About how the orcs arose from the depths and started attacking innocent goblins at first, then goblins patrols, then travelers. Eventually, all the outside paths became unsafe, even for unarmed goblins. Civilians are high-up within the mountain stronghold and only the military goes outside or into the lower tunnels.

I’m still waiting for the part where this is going to be easy to resolve.

Cyrus tries to ask more probing questions. Why were the orcs so successful? Have they always been here? Why are they only now becoming a problem? But the officer’s answers are just vague or outright admissions of ignorance. And it’s not because he’s being hostile of distrustful, he just doesn’t know.

Wild. It’s like an alien invasion except they’ve been under your foot this whole time.

Instead, the goblin talks about the world he does know: the world of goblins. He tells of the paths cut out of stone. The first goblins who cut and hewed the rocks with basic tools because they had nothing else. How over time the goblins worked with dwarves to develop better tools and even machines that could cut deeper and wider.

He tells of the absence of the dwarves after the Great War and how the goblins continued pushing, building and maintaining. Some of the rooms are still just simple dens, but others feel like homes, same as any ‘dirt dweller’ he says. And the grand halls, well, he’s never seen them but he swears they are tall and mighty. Worthy of the great name of ‘goblin’.

He takes such pride in his kind. His kind and the Maker who he references frequently. And he is not alone. We start passing other goblins and some of the simpler dwellings we discussed. Many goblins are in clerical robes. Some of those are praying. And they aren’t conducting some service or whatever. They are just praying at tables or as they walk.

“May the Maker your Map” is heard nearly as often as “hello” or “good-bye.” There is no color here though. No greenery, unless one considers the goblins themselves of course. All the clothes seem to be darker here whether blue, blue, red, or what have you. It’s like they’ve been washed out. And there’s definitely no light or sunny threads here, and certainly no pastels.

Myran must be going crazy with all the blandness.

But the goblins don’t seem to mind at all. The civilians here look in excellent health, like they’d never even need a doctor. The spaces are also tidy and organized. There’s no mess either on the roads or in the dens. Everything feels completely secure.

“This is it,” the officer says a bit suddenly. “This is my main barracks. I’ll alert my commander and he will likely take you onward himself.”

“Are you sure?” I ask. “We don’t need a fancy entourage.”

The goblin smiles warmly. It’s the first time he seemed almost casual to me. “Spoken like a true goblin. I can relate. But you require certain formalities that must be preserved.”

Cause ‘preserving formalities’ is truly the spice of life.

“Good day to you all,” says the goblin. “It has been my honor.”

As he walks aways I have a feeling I’ll never see him again and wonder if the honor was actually mine.