The tribal leaders were eventually dragged away by their duties, but they more than fulfilled their end of the bargain before they left. Not only did I have every detail on the monsters down here that they did and the locations of the other two tribes, but they’d put out an open invitation for me to join the tribe if I decided the long path up wasn’t worth it.

I ignored the implied insult to my ability and politely declined, but that didn’t mean I failed to take advantage of their hospitality. I could use a place to plan my next move and they’d been all too happy to loan me a tent in their camp.

They really were suspiciously generous, but I’d take goblin machinations over the brutal law of the jungle any day. Especially when I didn’t have any real choice, like right now.

I put my hands on my knees and frowned at the food spread across the leather ground cloth before me. Under the relative sterility of the tent I could finally lay out Garrett’s stolen provisions and take stock of what I had left. After all, if this food was all that was saving me from permanent entrapment, I would need to ration it very carefully.

I finished my third count and pushed back disappointment. A full month’s supplies were more than I had any right to expect, but a part of me had still hoped for more. Maybe even one of those mythical bottomless cauldrons.

I shook my head and got to repackaging the supplies. It was a bit of a pain to be honest, it took a lot of vittles to last a whole month. Enough to surprise me that Garrett would actually bother with it. Maybe he had actually got his mother to pack it for him.

My ear twitched again and the faint scrape of leather vanished. My ears drooped. Starsdammit.

“Just come the fuck in.”

The leather tent flap jerked along with the form eavesdropping behind it. A sheepish looking Selyra poked her head in, followed by the rest of her body as I waved her through.

“Sorry.”

I shrugged. It was actually something of a pleasant surprise to find only a single goblin spying on me. I suppose Takahrah could work some seer mojo if he really cared, but as far as ordinary goblins went it was just Selyra.

“It’s fine.” Annoying maybe, but not a real problem. I was more bothered by how bad she was at it. It was only a matter of time until other goblins started wondering why she’d been crouching around half inside a tent. As strange as it might be, getting her inside would probably be more secretive in the long run.

It wasn’t like I’d be sticking around that long if my numbers were—

“What’re you drawing?”

Of course that was assuming she didn’t make a nuisance of herself.

“Math.” I said, staring down where I’d folded over the ground cloth to scrawl sigils on the dirt beneath. The true secrets of the discipline might be well beyond me, but I’d had occasion to practice the simpler aspects dozens of times. Mother’s mastery had made my head hurt just to look at, but you didn’t need that to calculate exactly how much theft would be safely dismissed as accounting errors and how much would earn someone a beating.

Turns out the math for rationing wasn’t that different from the math of stealing, and I didn’t like what it was telling me. The Rockbrothers were fairly distant from the tribe’s current position and the Deathspeakers weren’t much better. If I wanted to visit both I’d be nearly out of food even before I tried for my escape.

Selyra leaned over my work and began doodling out her own symbols. I let her, I was done anyway.

If I wanted to have any supplies at all for my escape, and I very much did, I’d have to choose which other tribe I would to visit. So who would have the best wisdom, the death-priests maintaining ancient magical traditions, or the grunts who liked to dig in the dirt?

Yeah, I was going for the Deathspeakers. I’m sure the Rockbrothers were great at crafting and all, but I was kinda stocked up on knives already. I’m pretty sure Garrett had some kind of fetish.

Despite the fairly tight schedule, I resolved to spend another day here at the Lifefather tribe camp. Only a fool moved without preparation, and I was no fool. I took advantage of the relative safety of the camp to catch some sleep first (after kicking Selyra out), and rose in the ‘morning’.

There was no true night of course, but the heavy leather of the tent blocked out light well and the camp had an established quiet time for people to sleep, so it amounted to the same thing. When I rose, the first order of business was weaponry. Garrett might have been happy to take on any foe with glorified kitchen knives, but I certainly wasn’t.

The Rockfather tribe may have been the best crafters, but every goblin tribe did most of their construction themselves. I considered trying to find some good looking examples to pilfer, but I had the feeling I could do better. I pulled over a random goblin asked for who made the best weapons and after a moment’s thought he pointed me in the right direction and I headed over to see who this craftsman was.

As I got closer to the edge of the camp the surroundings changed. I hadn’t been dedicating all that much attention to the layout here, but the feel here was still noticeably different. Most tents hadn’t had much storage, with larger communal storage instead, but this area was different. In this small little section at least, there was an air of self-sufficiency. Each tent had neat packs of supplies and ammunition next to them, the exact same kind of gear I’d want to keep nearby too.

As the area reached the edge of the camp the tents were replaced with fires. The bounty of their spike traps was plain to see, with whole carcasses spitted over intense coal beds and hundreds of meat strips laid out over smoky leaf fires. Dozens of goblins ran about, turning spits and flipping jerky strips, all overseen by lean Hobs with javelins slung across their backs.

I moved to pass the cooking area and reach the handful of other fires beyond, but one of the Hobs stopped me. It was uncharacteristically gentle, just a light shoulder pat and a quirked eyebrow, so much so that I didn’t realize he wanted me to stop at first. He had to seize my shoulder fully and bodily stop me to get my attention.

I looked up at the Hob, tense and ready for a fight, but he just grunted, slightly more irritated than before, but still more inquisitive than angry.

“I’m looking to repair and replace some gear.”

The Hob nodded and gestured to where I’d already been going. So helpful of him.

After I moved past the cook fires people stopped looking at me quite so much. Figured, in any other circumstances I probably would have tried to nick some food. But that wasn’t the goal today, I’d recognized what my guide had meant as soon as I saw it. Just beyond the cookfires were a handful of fires that served another purpose. Raw materials of various kinds littered the pace, with goblins running about ferrying supplies while Hobs clustered around the fires, slowly turning sharpened staves above the flames.

It was an age-old process. You couldn’t forge wood like metal, but a proper application of heat would get you that extra little bit of hardness to reinforce your weapon.

This was where the magic happened. No mana needed, just skill and time to turn raw lumber into pointy death. I moved in towards the center fire. I could always steal something, but trying to hide and craft at the same time was an unnecessary risk when I could trade instead.

Vru didn’t look up when I sat next to her fire. She didn’t have to, not with [Beggar’s Disregard] unactivated. She merely muttered an acknowledgement while continuing to wind sinew bindings around the head of the javelin she was making. The equipment I’d seen was somewhat eclectic with everything from crudely sharpened twigs to finely knapped spear points in attendance, but Vru’s gear was still a cut above the rest. Each javelin’s slender shaft was composed from the finest hardwood and the points looked to have been stolen from some majestic beast. Perhaps they’d been antlers in their past life, but now their wicked tips graced the huntress’s spears.

“I would like to craft with your fires and materials.”

Vru’s eyes flicked over to me, then back to her work. “Any of the Hobs’ will make room for you.” She jerked her head in the direction of the jungle. “You’re welcome to harvest anything you need.”

Unspoken was the rebuttal. I was welcome to find my own shit, but what the tribe had gathered was for the tribe.

“I’d greatly…” Value, appreciate? “Thank you for the materials you’ve gathered. I’ve brought items to trade.”

That piqued her interest. Her nimble fingers ceased their dance across the spear shaft and she turned her full attention to me. “I’m listening.”

I smiled and brought out my secret weapon. My search through Garrett’s supplies had revealed a lot more than food.

By the end of negotiations I was scowling. Vru was no fool, and my attempts to capitalize on the tribe’s isolation and ignorance had backfired. They weren’t the innocent tribespeople I’d thought, and my trade goods weren’t as novel as I had hoped. Nonetheless, I got everything I wanted in the end. I’d had to give up every last ounce in exchange, but that was more a loss of pride than anything else. I hadn’t been planning on using the stuff myself. Even the potential use as disinfectant was largely unnecessary with my current stock of healing potions.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Vru grinned as she took a swig of high proof whiskey. “Pleasure doing business with you.”

I gave her a cursory smile in return before I moved on to my work. I had weapons to make.

There a myriad of ways to judge a weapon, but I was only worrying about two right now: how hard it hit, and how easy you could hit a guy with it. One of the most critical aspects of the former was leverage, and one of the most critical aspects of the later was reach. To that end, I was repurposing one of my daggers into a spear. It was the best way to get a proper weapon out of what I had, with the fine steel blades I had my spear could be the envy of many a Hob back home.

If I made it right.

Now a less thoughtful goblin might have simply tied the dagger to a stick and called that a spear, but I liked to think I was a step ahead of that at least. After all, a shitty spear was only so much better than a properly made dagger. I aimed for a step above, a weapon worthy of the name.

Unfortunately that was a task easier said than done. If I wanted a way to attach my dagger blade to a spear haft securely, the best way would probably be to figure out however the weaponsmith had affixed their current handles, then just do that, but longer.

The problem being said weaponsmith’s possession of all manner of specialized tools and skills that I didn’t have. The Rockbrothers might, but I wasn’t trekking all the way over there just for a spear.

I set out a few of the more likely looking daggers and pulled and prodded at the simple weapons. I got a few funny looks, but it wasn’t like I was planning on enjoying a rich social life here anyway. I was about to give up and start hacking away at the wooden grips when one of them jerked in my grip.

Having narrowly avoided cutting myself while playing with knives, I eyed the weapon suspiciously, but the culprit was ultimately shockingly simple. The dagger’s pommel unscrewed and I’d overwhelmed the resistance and jolted the stiff metal into motion.

I quickly turned the pommel off the dagger and much to my delight the wooden grip simple slid off after it. Without the furnishings in the way the skeleton of the weapon was exposed, although comparing it to a full living skeleton was perhaps unfair. At its core it was hardly complicated, just a simple extension of the blade, somewhat narrower and completely unsharpened.

Now I was working with something.

I picked through the premade spear shafts for one that suited my purposes. I eventually settled on a midrange haft which could work for either stabbing or throwing and widened the long notch already carved in one end. It had been made to fit a stone blade, not the long tang of a steel blade, so I worked until I could dry fit the spear together smoothly and snugly.

With that done I slathered on a blend of charcoal dust and sticky sap that had been heated over a fire. The substance was a massive pain to work with, but once it set it wouldn’t let go. I slid the dagger’s tang into the shaft and began to bind the wood and steel sandwich tight together with sinew. The binding would squeeze out air pockets and prevent the split in the wood from spreading further down the shaft. I didn’t stop until the entire joint was covered with the wound sinew from a few inches below the joint to even criss-crossing around the crossguard to eliminate any chance of the weapon loosening up on me.

I left satisfied. This? This was a real weapon.

I’d spent quite a while working on my new weapon, but there was still one more thing I wanted before I left, and there was only one goblin who could give it to me.

____________________________________________________________________________

Jurakra’s tent stood alone. Why became increasingly clear as I got closer: the place stank. Her apprentice shamans seemed oblivious to the constant searing odors, running between the various vats and cauldrons littering the area without a care, but the rest of the tribe certainly wasn’t.

It was almost enough to make me reconsider, but I squared my shoulders, tied a rag over my mouth and nose, and persevered. I’d known Jurakra was the tribe’s healer and the evidence that she stretched into over areas of alchemy only made it more likely for her to have the knowledge I wanted.

Nobody stopped me on my way to Jurakra’s tent, not even a casual stop like in Vru’s section of camp. I just walked right up to her. She was just as flamboyantly colored as she’d been the last time I’d seen her, and in the same patterns. Either those dyes were more permanent than I’d presumed or she hadn’t slept at all in the last twenty-four hours.

As her head snapped around to face me I got an sudden sense that it was the latter.

“Cousin!” Jurakra opened her arms in greeting, but that didn’t change the manic look in her bloodshot eyes. “Just the kind of goblin I’m looking for! You’re a brave man, aren’t you?”

That was not a question I liked, and the circumstances only made it worse. Jurakra was holding a ladle in one hand and the other had been clutching a squirming goblin. ‘Had been’ because the little bastard had been more than happy to use Jurakra’s distraction to finally wriggle free. A handful of other goblins littered the ground around her feet in puddles of their own vomit.

“I need test subjects! I keep telling the little cowards that I can purge the poison faster than it would kill them anyway, but they’re just too squeamish! A bit of vomit never hurt anyone….”

I cleared my throat. “Unfortunately I can’t consume any magical concoctions developed down here.”

I had absolutely no idea if that was true, but it was certainly plausible. Liquids might be fine, but potions were more than just liquid. They totally could be a problem.

Jurakra snapped her fingers. “Ah, right! I forgot.”

Jurakra turned about, looking for her escaped test subject. Said test subject very carefully crept alongside the bronze cauldron, keeping it carefully juxtaposed between him and the Hob. I hummed in thoughtful appreciation. That move was incredibly tricky to pull off.

Jurakra sighed and turned back to me. “Well, since my test subject went missing I might as well ask what you want. Maybe I’ll get lucky and some extra time steeping will turn out to be what this brew needed all along.”

I smiled and raised up a single glass vial. “How would you like to examine the work of another alchemist?”

Jurakra licked her lips and took a half-step forward. My smile widened. I had her.

The slender glass vial twirled in my fingers and vanished back into my sleeve. “I’m sure we can come to an agreement.”

Jurakra paused, then answered my smile with her own. “Oh yes, I’m sure we can…”

The two of us retreated to Jurakra’s tent to negotiate. The tent was designed significantly differently from the rest, far larger and with more of a domed rectangle than the simple cone shapes of the average tent here, and stepping in was an instant breath of fresh air. Literally, some enchantment blocked out the intense smells outside.

“So!” Jurakra clapped her hands and leaned forward. “What have you got for me?”

“Why, only potions from a completely different alchemical tradition. Who knows what you could learn?”

Jurakra folded her arms. “Probably nothing. You can’t just take take a potion and copy it. Even if whatever surface potions you have use ingredients that exist down here, learning anything from it is far more complicated than that.”

“Buuuut, that doesn’t mean I’m not interested. Useful or not, it’s bound to be interesting. So show me what you’ve got, and we can talk about what you want for it.”

I put aside the sleight of hand and just took out a sack with a sampling of the different concoctions from Garrett’s alchemical supply pouch. The full storage pouch was still buried beneath my layers, both to prevent theft and to inflate the value of each vial with artificial rarity.

“Mmm-hmm.” Jurakra ran her tongue over her lips as she delicately picked out each individual vial and laid them down in a neat line.

“I’d actually like to know what they do. They didn’t come with an instruction manual and I’m understandably reluctant to start swallowing random crap.”

“Oh really?” Jurakra motioned to throw back the potion and laughed when I flinched. “There’s only one way to be sure in the end.”

“But don’t you worry, I won’t resort to that just yet. Safety first.” Jurakra popped off a cork and a jet of flame immediately shot up ten feet in the air between us.

I scrambled backwards, the roaring of the flames overcome only by the sound of Jurakra’s cackling laughter. An unnatural wind sprung forth, sending herbs flying about the room in a swirling vortex around the bottle and fanning the blaze higher. The blaze didn’t go out, just continuing to jet forth as if that tiny vial contained an ocean’s worth of fuel.

Shit, that couldn’t be how that actually worked, could it?

The flames cut off, revealing a singed Jurakra with a manic smile. “Hah! That’s quite the fire!”

I took a breath, taking in the sent of burnt flesh along with it. “Are you alright?”

Jurakra shrugged, still grinning. “Don’t worry, eyebrows grow back.”

I knew I’d smelled more than hair burning, but the shaman the vial up to her eye level to examine it and making the source frightfully clear. Half a finger’s depth of orange liquid still seethed and roiled at the bottom of the vial, unable to burst into flames. At the top of the vial was the charred remnants of what had once been a finger, crammed down the neck. That’s what had stopped the flame, but even the split second of exposure had been enough to burn it to the bone.

I swallowed. “I am so, so sorry.” I forced every ounce of sincerity I had into the words. It had been Jurakra’s own damn fault, but that didn’t mean she’d see it that way.

“Mmm?” Jurakra looked down from a quick inspection of the hole burnt through her ceiling. “What? Oh, you’re fine.”

“I am?” I was?

“What, you think this is the first time I’d lost a finger? If you really wanna be helpful you’d help me find a knife…” She cast her eyes about her tent looking. Why all the little plant trimming blades scattered about weren’t good enough I didn’t know.

“Like this?” I offered up the blade I’d been wearing. Since Raas hadn’t taken the opportunity to steal my dagger when he had the chance I’d started openly wearing one of my many blades on my belt. If no one was gonna steal it I’d rather have one quickly available.

Jurakra snatched up the knife I’d offered and slide it behind the first knuckle of her index finger. “This is gonna hurt, so forgive me if I say something impolite.”

And with that the damn nutter cut off her finger. The constant stream of words spewing from her mouth were largely unfamiliar to me, but those I recognized were indeed impolite. Very.

I was somewhat concerned that someone might investigate her distress, which rapidly became concern for why no other goblin wanted to risk doing so, but her constant curses were actually very interesting, so I settled for simply staying very, very still.

Jurakra’s vocabulary wasn’t the only thing that was interesting. There was nothing terribly fascinating about her treatment, but there was always knowledge to be gained. She chewed up a handful of herbs and spat them out on her stump. That was the point at which her swearing started to drift off, the salve doubtless involved some manner of painkiller, and maybe a coagulant too if the blood flow was anything to go by.

She followed it up with a bandage, securing it against the wound and cutting off the blood flow entirely. “There. Annoying, but hardly debilitating. It’ll grow back in a week or two.”

Jurakra tossed the half empty vial back at me, grisly new stopper and all. “There’s your potion, but I don’t know that I’d try drinking it. Figure it’s more of a throwing thing.”

I eyed the little bundle of herbs bound on her finger stump with new respect. “Is it really going to be back that quickly?”

“Hah! Of course. Just have to keep the wound clean, treat it properly, it’ll grow itself back no problem. It’s not like it couldn’t do it on its own anyway, even if might take longer...”

I eyed her injury with some degree of suspicion, but I didn’t want to risk offending anyone crazy enough to lop off a finger.

Unfortunately said crazy lady wasn’t so crazy as to be unable to read expressions. “Something on your mind?”

I reluctantly nodded. “Raas could heal like that too. How many of you have that mutation?”

Jurakra cocked her head in confusion before the truth dawned on her. She laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, a Hob mutation couldn’t do something like that. My nose,” her nose was indeed impressively large, and possessed of many folds, “or Raas’s size is about as far as those ever go. No, you’d need something a little more… deliberate to get this.”

The Hob winked. “It’s a secret, so don’t tell anyone I told ya. The bond with our patron spirits enables us to access a potion of their power. Not everyone’s got it of course, you normally need to earn a blood-bond first, but being shaman has its privileges.”

I wilted at the source of that power. “So it's of no use to me, not if I want to leave.”

Jurakra smirked. “Heh. Getting greedy, aren’t you? The spirits might get underfoot sometimes, but that doesn’t mean we hand them out to just anyone who asks. The old boar protects us, it is our duty to protect her children in turn. Now, do we want to get crackin’ on the rest of these or what?”

I blinked. “You want to keep going?”

Jurakra cracked her knuckles. “I’ve got nine fingers left, don’t I?”

____________________________________________________________________________

It didn’t get much better after that. It got a lot more informative though, and I left with a far better understanding of what my stolen potions did and of what Jurakra considered an acceptable level of risk in alchemical research.

Essentially any level of risk as it turned out. I couldn’t say that I was fond of her methods, but she did get results. Some of them even seemed to come from knowledge and skill, rather than near suicidal recklessness. Her enthusiasm even got far enough ahead of her that she didn't charge me anything, so I was more than satisfied.