Sven grunted as he tried to pull himself loose from the bramble thicket. The thick black thorns had dug deep into his leather armor, tearing chunks out of the hide.
“Nasty, heavy, too big armor!” he exclaimed, hacking at the bushes with his knife. At last, he cut through the branches, breaking loose from the plant. He spat on the brambles, sneering. A heap of severed vines lay at his feet.
“Hurry up!” Malcolm said, poking his head out from around a tree. “The camp is still a mile out.” Groaning, Sven followed him, picking at his armor.
For the past week and a half, Malcolm and Sven had been hard at work gathering information on the Northern Tribes. As instructed by General Demisatious, they had been making nightly trips to the Tribesmen’s camp, observing and stealing as much as they could.
For weeks, the Tribes had steadily marched closer to Bullhaven, until they finally settled about five miles out. Demisatious had sent Malcolm and Sven to figure out why the army had suddenly paused their advance.
It was well past midnight by the time Malcolm and Sven reached the outskirts of the Northern Tribes’ camp. Tucked into a forest clearing, the haphazard rows of tents sprawled out before them. The faint embers of cooking fires burned low, casting long shadows across the area.
Sven found Malcolm crouched behind a stump, carefully analyzing the camp. “What you be lookin’ for?” Sven asked, sitting down beside the human
“Something’s not right,” Malcolm muttered. He pointed to a row of tents. “Those tents were facing away from us last time. Now I can practically see inside,” he frowned, inspecting the area again. “And I don’t see the usual guards. They should be in sight by now.”
Sven looked at the camp, peering into the deep shadows cast by the tents. Through the darkness, he could just see the faint outline of a guard; the man slumped against his spear. “Looks like the guards’ just be sleepin’,” he said, standing up. “I say we go in.”
“Alright…” Malcolm said, standing up. He wore the same thick leather armor as Sven, along with a short sword that hung from his belt. General Demisatious had insisted they wear the gear, just in case they had to fight. Sven had turned down any additional weapons, vowing to use his knife liberally.
Sven took the lead as they entered the camp, carefully guiding Malcolm through the maze of tents with a practiced ease. They had made a map of the camp on their first trip and studied it until they memorized it.
The camp was quiet, except for the occasional snore from one of the tents. Sven couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief as the command tent came into view. It rose slightly above its surroundings and was made of higher quality furs. Crouching next to the wall, Malcolm put his head to the furs, listening inside.
“Safe.” he whispered, turning to Sven. The Goblin nodded, drawing his dagger as a precaution. With a smooth motion, he dove under the tent, disappearing behind the flap. Malcolm could faintly hear him rustling around inside, sifting through the countless letters and documents. They couldn’t take everything; that would arouse too much suspicion. Instead, they had to choose, stealing only what seemed important.
Malcolm waited impatiently while Sven rummaged around inside the tent. He could hear the Goblin shuffling through papers and opening chests and drawers.
After a minute, Sven slid back out of the tent, holding a thick envelope. “I found a good one!” he whispered, handing it to Malcolm. A broken red wax seal hung from the paper. The note inside was written in excellent penmanship, and tied shut with a blue and gold ribbon.
Malcolm tucked the letter into his pocket. “Let’s go.” he muttered, standing up. Sven immediately pulled him back down, pointing at the letter again.
“Read it.” The Goblin said. Sighing, Malcolm pulled the note back out. It appeared to be a correspondence from an ally of the Tribes, giving brief mentions of gold deliveries and asking about the state of supplies. Malcolm handed the note to Sven, shrugging.
“Seems normal to me.”
“Then you best be gettin’ your eyes checked, human.” Sven muttered angrily. He pointed to the last two paragraphs, quietly reading them aloud. “Following the recent attack at Bullhaven, the King has instructed his troops to rebuild the town, removing them from other patrols and duties. I urge you to move quickly while they are distracted.” He cleared his throat before continuing. “Per our previous correspondence, you should now know of the two individuals recently enlisted by his Majesty King Edvard. They have infiltrated your camp on multiple occasions. I do not believe anything of value has been obtained. We are currently attempting to determine where their allegiances may lie. Please give directions on the matter.”
Malcolm stared at Sven, turning the letter’s words over in his mind. They know we’re here! he thought.
Sven tucked the letter into one of his pouches. “Let’s be movin’,” he said. “It be a long way back to Bullhaven.”
Malcolm followed the Goblin, still thinking over what he’d heard. They moved tents… they know we’re here… someone within Bullhaven? Suddenly it clicked. “Sven!” he whispered. The Goblin glanced back, confused. “They know we are here! Run!”
As Malcolm finished his words, the tents around them erupted. Men poured out, brandishing a motley assortment of weapons. Dressed in thick furs and leather armor they charged Malcolm and Sven.
Eyes wide with surprise, Sven bolted between the tents, disappearing around a bend. Malcolm followed close behind, legs pounding against the packed dirt. He could feel the Tribesmen on his tail, their long battleaxes whistling inches from his legs. Skidding, he raced around the corner, narrowly avoiding an arrow that whizzed over his head. Great! he thought. They have archers!
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The woods loomed before him as he rounded another corner. More arrows flew overhead, imbedding in trees or flying into the depths of the forest. Malcolm looked desperately for Sven, but the little Goblin was nowhere in sight. He’s probably halfway to Bullhaven, Malcolm thought.
As he reached the woods, Malcolm skidded to a halt, drawing his sword with a swift motion. Before him loomed a gigantic man, wielding an even larger axe. With a whistle, the immense blade streaked through the air. Gritting his teeth, Malcolm parried the blow, wincing as the shock numbed his arm.
Staggering backwards, Malcolm tried to get a good look at his adversary. The Tribesman stood a head above Malcolm, lips peeled back to reveal a row of broken yellow teeth. A maze of black tattoos peaked out from underneath his thick fur jacket, and his long blonde hair hung loose past his shoulders.
Malcolm raised his sword just in time to parry the axe blade. The impact sent a jolt through his arm. “Sven!” he shouted, blocking another blow. The man continued his hammering assaults, slowly forcing Malcolm deeper and deeper into the woods. The other Tribesmen gathered at the edge of the camp, watching the fight with interest.
Malcolm inched backwards, gradually giving ground. Despite his best efforts, he couldn’t help but stagger under the axe’s heavy blows. His shoulder throbbed, and deep notches had been chipped into his sword, each marking a successful parry. “Sven!” he called again, glancing around for the Goblin.
A green blur suddenly shot out from a nearby bush, slamming into the Tribesmen. With a thump, the man flopped to the ground, Sven’s knife firmly imbedded in his neck. The Goblin pulled out his blade, wiping it on his sleeve. “No need to be thankin’ me,” he said.
“Thanks.” Malcolm puffed, leaning on a tree to catch his breath. His arm hung limp at his side, numbed by the onslaught. He studied the fallen man before him, marveling at the thick furs. He recognized fox, rabbit, and deer, along with a thick black pelt he suspected was bear.
An arrow whizzed over Malcolm’s head, jolting him back to focus.
With a cacophony of shouts and roars, a wave of men charged towards the woods, waving an assortment of swords, axes, spears, and shovels. Behind them, a group of archers reloaded their crossbows.
Sven pulled Malcolm into the bushes as the men approached, stepping over their fallen comrade. Someone barked an order, and they spread out across the area, searching for their prey.
“What do we do?” Malcolm whispered.
“Watch.” Sven replied. As one of the Tribesmen drew close, the Goblin darted from his bush, slashing the man’s calves. With a cry of pain, the man collapsed, tendons severed. Jabbing his dagger, Sven silenced the man’s screams.
As the Goblin stood over his defeated foe, a half-dozen other men emerged from the area lured by their companion’s screams.
They surrounded the Goblin, who grinning maniacally, showing his rows of pointed yellow teeth. His yellow eyes glinted in the dim moonlight. He cackled, brandishing his blood-stained dagger. “Who be wantin’ to go next?” The Tribesmen muttered among themselves, staring at Sven.
“Boyek!” one of them said, pointing at the Goblin.
“Boyek!” the others echoed, backing away, eyes wide with fear. Rushing forwards, Sven stabbed the knee of the nearest man. The others stumbled back in surprise, tumbling through the thick bushes. Sneering, Sven stabbed at the heels of the retreating men, chuckling as he chased them.
“Where you be goin’!?” Sven shouted. He stopped at the edge of the woods, watching the men run back to their camp. “Cowardly humans!” he scoffed.
“Sven!” Malcolm shouted, emerging from around a tree. “We should get moving before they return.” Sven nodded, and they set out for the town.
It took the better part of an hour to return to Bullhaven. As they traveled, Malcolm and Sven discussed the letter. Who was the scout within Bullhaven? It was obviously someone with a connection near his Majesty.
At last Bullhaven rose into view between the trees. Malcolm and Sven paused a moment, staring across the fields at the town. The reconstruction was proceeding swiftly. Already the dark wooden shells of buildings rose above the rest of the town, a reminder of the Toe-Worm’s destruction.
As they crossed the field, Sven blew three short blasts on a small horn. Three more blasts returned from inside the camp, noting a sentry’s approval.
A small group had gathered at the entrance of the camp when Malcolm and Sven finally arrived. The guards eyed Sven warily, always staying out of the Goblin’s slashing range.
“Is Demisatious awake?” Malcolm asked. Is one of them the spy? Malcolm wondered, looking over the group.
“The General is waiting for ya.” One of the men replied, motioning deeper into the camp. He uttered Demisatious’s title with reverence. The General was a legend among his troops.
“Thanks.” Malcolm nodded, walking into the camp. He could feel eyes of the group boring into his back as he departed. Despite his best effort, he couldn’t help but feel relieved once he and Sven slipped into a maze of tents. It would be almost impossible to follow them in the labyrinth of cloth and stakes.
After a few minutes of wandering, they finally arrived at Demisatious’s tent. The General had insisted upon staying near troops, far away from the rest of the Royal Family. Pausing outside the entrance, Malcolm gently knocked on the long pole.
“Come in.” The General replied from inside. Malcolm and Sven ducked into the tent, momentarily blinked by the light of a lantern. Demisatious looked up from his desk, closing the letter he was writing. Red wax sizzled as he sealed the envelope. “Were ya’ successful?” he asked.
Sven bowed, presenting the envelope they’d stolen. “Yessir! Although, be lookin’ like you have a bit of a spyin’ problem!”
The General snatched the envelope from Sven’s hand, frantically reading the note inside. “Where did ya’ get this!?” he demanded, setting it down. He glanced between Malcolm and Sven, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and surprise.
“The command tent?” Malcolm replied, confused. “Sven found it just laying there.”
Demisatious muttered under his breath, re-reading the note. “Tell nobody ‘bout this. Until I say otherwise, yer eyes nevah read these words. Understand?” Malcolm and Sven nodded.
“Shouldn’t we notify King Edvard? Malcolm asked. “He should know if there is a traitor within his court.”
Demisatious gulped, obviously shaken by the note. “Aye. I will inform my brother in the morning.” Setting the letter down, he inspected Malcolm and Sven. “How was yer trip? I assume ya encountered some trouble?”
“Yes. But how did you…” Malcolm began.
Demisatious pointed at Sven. “There’s blood on the imp’s knife. How many of the lot saw ya?”
Sven thought for a second. “About a dozen. Two ain’t breathin’.”
Demisatious muttered again, looking down at the note. “This is certainly a setback.”
“I was thinkin’.” Sven said, reaching into a pouch. “The Almighty Toe was hopin’ to keep my presence unknown. Now that the Tribes were seein’ me, I’m goin’ to need a mask. I’ve been workin’ on this for a few days in case it be needed.” He handed Demisatious a piece of folded paper. The General looked it over, scratching his head.
“I’ll ask the leatherworkers ‘bout this.” he stuffed the paper into his pocket. “Ya did good tonight lads. Go get some sleep.”
“Thank you!” Malcolm and Sven said in unison. Bowing, Malcolm exited the tent. Sven followed close behind. As the Goblin ducked under the flaps, he turned back and asked, “The Tribesmen were callin’ me ‘Boyek’. You be knowin’ what it means?”
Demisatious chuckled. “I believe it means ‘Grinning Fiend’. An appropriate name indeed.”