The faint drumbeats of General Demisatious’s funeral procession grew near, echoing off the buildings. The crowd gathered on Bullhaven’s common waited in somber anticipation.

Peering down the long Bullhavan street, Malcolm could just make out the waving banners of the procession. As it steadily approached, Queen Estrellia came into view over a hill, her long blue and gold robes fluttering behind her chariot. Demisatious’s white stallion pulled at the yoke, snorting and stamping its polished hooves.

The General’s coffin, made of a deep black wood with golden spiral embellishments, bobbed behind the Queen. It rested on the shoulders of a dozen men, their ceremonial golden armor shining in the midday light.

The deep stamping of boots shook the ground as a thousand men followed the casket. Clad in full iron plate armor, they jingled with each step. Every other man held a long banner pole, proudly displaying the General’s green and gold standard for the final time.

Malcolm gently straightened Sven’s new silk tunic. The Goblin simply stared down at the mask Demisatious had given him, turning it over in his little green hands. The faintest of tears rolled down his cheeks, dampening the white leather.

Townspeople milled around the grassy area, many sitting on long oaken benches. Malcolm recognized some servants from the Royal Camp, along with a few shopkeepers from around town. Dressed in a soft black robe, Oswald sat in the front row, his mustache wet with tears.

At last, the procession arrived at the town common, gently setting the General beside his grave. A tall sword-shaped black marble headstone rose above the ground, marking the resting place of a general. A large mound of dirt lay several feet away, ready to refill the hole.

A glistening white and gold marble tree, a few feet taller than Malcolm, rose beside the General’s tombstone. It almost touched the dark monolith, separated only by a hands width. A thin inscription wrapped its trunk, spiraling around the trunk twice. A large golden crown sat on top of the grass beginning to sprout from the grave.

Here lies a great man,

Taken too soon from his loving people.

May he forever rest in peace,

Our King Edvard

The Queen cleared her throat, silencing the crowd. “Today we lay to rest our General,” The soldiers muttered among themselves, along with a faint sniffling from the crowd. Wiping her eyes, she continued. “Those among you who fought with him know he was one of the bravest men ever to walk these lands. First to charge and last to retreat,” A murmur of agreement rose from the crowd. “He was slain in a duel for this kingdom. A challenge no one asked of him.”

Malcolm felt a tear beginning to well in his right eye. Quickly he wiped it away with a glove.

“He had a chance to be King: leave the dangers of combat behind. He turned that down, because to him, there was no greater honor than that of defending this kingdom, even to his last breath,” Queen Estrellia silently ran her hand down the casket, feeling the golden inlays. “Demisatious will be known as a General, but to me... he was my uncle.” An aid passed her the General’s tattered banner, which she tearfully draped over his gilded casket. The embroidered tree lay in shreds, much of its right side missing.

The crowd muttered their condolences, along with a speckling of applause at the speech. More townspeople had joined the ceremony, streaming in from every street, or leaning from their nearby homes. Malcolm caught a faint glimpse of the innkeeper Agathee weaving around the crowd with a tray of ale and soft bread, selling her wares to the hungry spectators.

The dozen coffin bearers emerged from the ranks of soldiers, their faces grave with purpose. With a solemn nod to the Queen, they wrapped the casket in ropes and, heaving it over the hole, lowered Demisatious into the ground. The coffin hit the ground with a deep thump, followed by a clatter as the ropes were thrown in after it.

Scooping a handful of dirt from the pile, Queen Estrellia gently sprinkled the coffin. Forming a line, each soldier began to follow suit, many whispering their condolences to the Queen as they passed by.

Taking Sven’s arm, Malcolm stepped into the line. The soldiers spread out, giving Sven worried looks and plenty of room.

When it was finally his turn, Malcolm took a small handful of the dirt and threw it into the pit. Most of the casket was already obscured, and only the highest golden decorations poked through. We’ll find Armedious, Malcolm silently swore, remembering the General’s final words. You shall be avenged.

Behind him, Sven tossed his dirt, speeding up to join Malcolm by his side. Together they strode by the Queen, bowing slightly. “My condolences, your Majesty.” Malcolm said. Sven nodded his agreement.

“You two did your best,” the Queen said, looking them over sympathetically. “I do not want you to blame yourselves for what has occurred. The only man at fault is…” she choked up before finishing the sentence.

Armedious. Malcolm thought.

“We shall find him, you have my word.” Malcolm said. He moved on, letting the next man speak.

The Queen caught his arm. “I wish to speak with you two tomorrow morning. A servant will be sent tonight with the summons.”

Malcolm and Sven both bowed again. “Of course your Majesty!”

Malcolm shuttered as he gazed at the Queen’s audience tent. The memory of King Edvard, slain by his own son, still haunted him. His leg wound twitched from the memory, briefly reigniting the pain of Armedious’s blade.

“We best be goin’ in,” Sven grumbled. “No point just standin’ here.”

Sighing, Malcolm pushed through the tent flaps and into the audience chamber. A thick brown rug covered the previously earthen floor, and fresh blue and gold linens hung from the ceiling supports. The throne had been moved from the center of the chamber to the left side, making room for three rows of cushioned chairs and a variety of musical instruments.

Estrellia sat on the throne, conversing quietly with attendants. They poured over a small table of maps, placing and moving wooden markers. Noticing Malcolm and Sven arrive, Estrellia glanced up, accidently knocking over a tower-shaped piece. “One moment!” she called, returning to the conversation.

Taking a seat in the chairs, Malcolm strained to listen in on the conversation across the tent. Beside him, Sven plucked aimlessly at a harp, grinning at the foul noises he created.

“Stop it,” Malcolm whispered, nudging Sven. “You might break it.”

Sven groaned exasperatedly. “Fine.” With a slight grin, he began beating a pair of goat hide drums. The deep tones echoed around the tent, raising annoyed looks from the attendants by the throne.

Before Malcolm could reprimand him, Estrellia stood up, straitening her purple robes. The attendants carried the table out the door, spilling some pieces as they left. “I apologize for the wait,” she said, looking right at Sven. “But I do see you have found something to do.” She sat back down, relaxing in the throne’s deep blue cushions. “I have called you here to discuss a matter of utmost urgency. The loss of my uncle has left a hole in the heart of this kingdom. While it may take years to find a suitable replacement, we have to try and fill the void.” She stood up, looking Malcolm and Sven over. “As you expressed in your first meeting with my father, you two were strategists under the Almighty Toe, correct?”

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Malcolm felt the panic rising in his chest. Frantically, he tried to think of a reply. Before he could get a word out, Sven answered. “Of course your Majesticness! We be some of the best in the great tunnels of Toehalla!”

“Excellent!” Estrellia exclaimed. “I wish to extend an offer for your services. Until this war is over, we are in great need of someone, or Goblin, to take up part of the General’s duties.”

“What about a member of the army?” Malcolm asked. “Surely one of them would have more… qualifications?”

The Queen nodded. “There in lies the dilemma. Many of them were trained by my uncle, who also instructed my br... the former Prince. He no doubt knows what we might attempt, and has created counter movements. We require a fresh set of… ideas. My uncle was preparing a new set of plans when he was…” she trailed off, her meaning clear.

Malcolm felt the knot in his throat tighten. She has a good point, he realized, going over the logic. Sven does have some experience with his Foot…

“I’ll be acceptin’ your nice offer!” Sven said, standing up and bowing until his long ears touched the ground. “I’ll be needin’ to be knowin’ how many humans you be havin’ here and…”

The Queen cut him off with a wave. “That can be sorted shortly. I have already prepared much of what you may require,” she turned to Malcolm. “You may remain with Sven, or spend the day as you please.”

Malcolm shrugged, turning to Sven. “Do you want any help?”

“I don’t be needin’ your humanly meddlin’. This be requirin’ the mind of a Toe Goblin.” He straightened his tunic pompously.

“I suppose I will go into town for the day,” Malcolm said, mentally making plans. “I haven’t had a chance to explore much since the reconstruction began.”

“In that case…” The Queen said, pulling a rolled scroll from a fold in her robes, “Would you be so gracious as to deliver this to the butcher? It contains a special order he must prepare.”

“Of course, your Majesty.” Malcolm said, taking the scroll. Seeing he was free to go, he exited the tent with a slight bow. I hope Sven can handle this, he thought, heading down the hard packed dirt path.

He weaved his way towards Bullhaven’s gate, carefully avoiding the haphazardly placed tents. After the Tribes’ assault, the camp’s reconstruction was hasty, and much of its original organization was lost. Chucks of armor, bone, and shattered swords still dotted the ground, along with a mess of deep boot prints. In places, the dirt had dried in place, creating a sea of ridges and valleys.

The wave of mid-morning merchants streamed into Bullhaven, carting their wares in small wheelbarrows. The occasional donkey pulled a cart of vegetables, heaving at the yoke. Three farmers wrestled with a squealing pig that had escaped its leash, and was attempting to grab a fallen carrot.

Waving to the guards as he passed, Malcolm entered the town. Everywhere, the Toe-Worm’s damage was apparent. Fresh cobblestones covered the street, rising and falling slightly from the pitted ground.

New buildings rose around the town. Some built upon an existing structure, while others started from the ground. Chunks of stone and wood still protruded from roofs, along with the occasional broken window. One home was just a jungle of planks and posts, with a small army of workers hard at work. Piles of lumber, stone, and tools lay scattered around the workplaces or in the sidewalks.

Finally, Malcolm located the butcher’s shop. A newly replaced ham-shaped sign hung from the eves, squeaking slightly as it swung. Patches of new wooden shingles on the roof were just beginning to weather, their light color fading.

Pulling the scroll from his pocket, Malcolm opened the door, glancing around for the butcher. The shop smelled strongly of raw meat, along with the smoky aroma of a fire. A long counter covered in steaks, bones, pork chops, turkey legs, whole chickens, and scraps filled the center of the room.

A few townspeople milled around, carefully inspecting the wares. Some of them gently squeezed and slapped the meat, watching the texture and wobble. The butcher himself was hard at work slicing steaks on a back table, carefully judging the size of each portion. His bushy white beard and leather apron were stained rust red.

“Excuse me?” Malcolm asked, approaching the man. He looked up sharply, pausing a cut.

“What do ya’ be needin’ today lad?” He smiled, revealing a mouth full of crooked teeth. Malcolm noticed the last two fingers missing from his left hand.

Malcolm held out the letter. “Message from the Queen. Should be an order.”

The old man drew himself up straight. “It’s always a pleasur’ to serve Her Majesty,” He took the letter, shoving it in a greasy pocket behind the apron. “That all?” he asked.

Nodding, Malcolm headed for the door, giving the center table a wide berth. Before he could get out, a small woman pushed through the door, huffing with effort.

“Agathee?” Malcolm asked, surprised. She looked up, eyes lighting up with recognition.

“I didn’t expect to see you here!” she exclaimed. “I’m so glad you’re all right! When the building came down, I was afraid you hadn’t gotten out!” She looked around Malcolm’s legs. “How is your little brother? Is he feeling better? I asked, but no one had seen him.”

“He’s doing well,” Malcolm reassured. “We managed to get a place to stay with the army.”

Agathee gasped, putting her hand over her heart in surprise. “A child? In that filthy place?! Have you no dignity!” She glared at Malcolm, as if he had offended her. “There is even talk of a…” she leaned close, lowering her voice to a whisper. “…a Toe Goblin among the men. Is it true?”

“Perhaps…” Malcolm muttered.

“Ridiculous!” Agathee exclaimed, startling some of the other costumers. “First the worm, and now this! Has everyone around here lost their minds? Toe Goblins around children! I never thought I’d live to see the day! That poor little boy, trapped in the camp with that fiend!”

With a huff, she pushed past Malcolm, making a beeline for the center table. Malcolm moved to join her, inspecting a large cut of pork. “I’m sorry for what happened to the Inn. It was a terrible tragedy.”

Agathee scoffed. “That place was ready to fall anyway! The army is rebuilding it in stone. They say the best workmen in the kingdom are here! And have you seen how much they drink?” she joked, jingling her purse. “I have not had this much business in decades.”

“I saw you at the General’s funeral. He was a good man.”

“Aye.” Agathee muttered, her face growing grave. “He’s protected this kingdom as long as I can remember. Shame to see him go. Did you meet him?”

The General’s final moments flashed through Malcolm’s mind. The thundering hooves of the horses. The squeal of Armedious’s sword. Estrellia’s tear-stained face. “A few times,” Malcolm answered eventually. “He helped out Sv… the child and I. We did some errands in return.”

Not bothering to answer, Agathee hefted the pork chop, looking it over. Satisfied, she brought it to the counter, setting it down with a slap. “Can I get a dozen of these?”

“Sure thing ma’am.” The butcher responded, disappearing into a backroom.

“Have you made any plans for today?” Agathee asked.

Malcolm shrugged. “Just to stay in town. I had to deliver a letter to the butcher.”

“In that case, how about you come down to the Inn for the afternoon? I’ll be serving this pork at sundown, along with some crispy potatoes!” Thinking the proposition over for a second, Malcolm nodded, swayed by the thought of the juicy meat. Its been weeks since I had a freshly cooked meal, he realized. The army’s rations were adequate, but they largely consisted of salted meats and vegetables.

The butcher returned with the meat wrapped nicely in parchment. Agathee counted the bundles, and wordlessly handed over a few gold coins. Taking as many as she could carry, she passed the rest to Malcolm, piling them in his arms. “You might as well help if you’re going to stand there.” she commented, placing the final piece of meat.

It was dark when Malcolm wove his way back through the camp. His stomach rumbled, stuffed full with pork, bread, stew, and ale. Malcolm grinned, remembering the juicy meat practically falling apart on his fork. A local bard had arrived in the afternoon and entertained the patrons with his rowdy songs. Soldiers, on leave from their duties, told harrowing tales of valor across the land.

At last, Malcolm recognized the tent he shared with Sven and ducked inside, careful not to bump his head on the beam. Illuminated by a dim lantern, Sven sat in the middle of the dirt floor, half buried in a mound of parchment and ink. Piles of paper, much of it crumpled, littered the floor, each marking an unsuccessful idea.

“You be in late.” Sven muttered, not looking up.

Malcolm suppressed a belch. “I ran into Agathee at the butcher’s. I ended up back at the Inn. The food was good.”

“Glad you were havin’ fun…” Sven said. He angrily crossed out a page with his quill pen, tearing unto the parchment with the tip. Tossing it aside, he took a fresh roll from a pile beside him and began work again, quickly drawing a web of lines and symbols.

“Any luck?” Malcolm asked, picking up a discarded page. It showed a frontal assault, with the main force splitting into a dozen small groups before they made contact.

Sven groaned, tossing his pen aside. “There be too many humans! I can’t be keepin’ track of them all. One force be too large, and little ones be too weak!”

Malcolm thought for a second, running an idea through his head. “What about splitting the force? Like you did with your Foot of Toe Goblins?”

“Of course not!” Sven sighed, exasperated. “I tried that! It would be foolish to…” he trailed off, frantically scribing on the closest sheet. Malcolm leaned over his shoulder, trying to decipher the mess of lines.

“What are those five blobs?” he asked, poking the page. Sven had drawn five small ovals, and was busy connecting them with lines and arrows.

“You’ll be seein’ in the mornin’...” Sven muttered in return, swatting Malcolm’s hand away.