Chapter 47 - Frogged Down

I nearly squawked myself, spinning and waving the knife in front of my face.

The wading bird jumped back, wings flapping for balance as it looked down at me curiously. It tilted its head one direction, then the other to gander at me with each eye, as though it wasn’t sure what it beheld. Maybe it wasn’t used to goblins in the swamp, but it certainly wasn’t afraid of us. The quills that had stood up when I surprised it flattened back down. It leaned forward and pecked at the bone crown on my head.

“Shoo!” I hissed. My adversary was not deterred. It looked down at me from the lofty height of about 1.5 meters. Then stepped past me and stuck its beak close to my partner. Our guard raised his spear, but I held him back.

“No! We don’t want it making a ruckus. Maybe it’ll go away.”

My armored partner gave me a dubious look, but kept his spear at the ready. The bird stepped closer to our companion, and that’s when I heard it.

“Ribit”

The wader pushed its wings overhead, creating a shade over the three of us as it stared down at the goblin who had swallowed the frog whole. It prodded its beak down around the water line, looking for the source of the sound.

“It’s hunting!” I said. “It wants the frog!”

The goblin clapped his hands over his mouth, but not before another ribit worked its way up from his depths. The water bird snapped its head up, realizing the source of the sound, and thrusting its beak down toward the goblin with all the grace and subtlety of a drunken ex on New Years. The goblin fell back, arms windmilling as he splashed and squawked.

“Can it!” I hissed. “Get out of here, bird!” I ordered.

Instead of obeying me, the waterfowl shoved his beak right into the mouth of the struggling goblin, an act that was as stupid as it was brazen. But man, I guess it really wanted that frog. It was like watching the worst game of operation ever as the bird fished through my panicked partner’s innards. He must have nibbled the little guy’s uvula, because the frog, and everything else the goblin had eaten in the last 24 hours, came fountaining up right into the bird’s face.

The bird trilled in outrage and alarm—doubly so when the frog made it’s timely escape. But the low whistle humming across the bog brought my attention away from the bizarre tableau and over to the island where the two croc-knockers had been basking. An island that was now empty.

Uh oh.

“Out of the water!” I called. “Get the iron onto dry land!”

The rest of the goblins had stopped working to watch the show, some cheering for their comrade and some trilling like the water bird, presumably supporting its conquest. But they all heard my call and looked back at the now-empty island. All interest in the epic battle evaporated. Even the water bird took flight, its day having taken a decidedly bizarre turn. A pair of frog legs dangled from its beak.

The shore suddenly seemed so far away. I pushed through the water, no longer as concerned with stealth. A cry of alarm brought me back around. The goblin guard was furiously thrusting his spear down into the murky depths, when all of a sudden a fountain of bog water sprayed upward, carrying the guard with it. The long jaws of a crock-knocker followed, snapping shut on the goblin. His armor held out as the jaw muscles on the creature bulged and shook, but then the plates gave out with a crack, and the shouts cut off.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

This wasn’t the croc from the island. This one was bigger, and still had the XX above it. Which meant the ones from the island were still out here.

Somewhere else along the line, another croc-knocker struck—on an unarmored goblin this time, which meant any iron that he’d collected would have just gone down the croc’s gullet in a tragic loss.

“Poppers and spears!” I shouted, holding my own wicker basket out of the water. “Poppers and spears!”

The pop pop of the clay grenades began to erupt against the hard shell of the crocs, and they roared in anger. There were no tesla wasps to intervene this time. Just a dozen goblins with ceramic tipped spears and minor explosives.

A pair of goblins on the shore angled one of the RPP’s towards us, and I dove face-first under the water as they struck the primer. I could see the flare of the rocket motor pass over me before the explosion created a wave of water that knocked me almost to shore. I held the basket tight to my chest as I broke the surface for air.

The croc reeled from the rocket propelled popper, but recovered quick and opened its mouth. I could see the muscles bunch up before the hard knob at the end of its tongue shot out within a few centimeters of my head and conked one of the rocket goblins on the skulll. I saw ceramic chips fly as the goblin was knocked off its feet. But I didn’t get a notification for its demise. Thank you ceramic! Thank you stone-sloth totem!

That didn’t mean things were going well, of course. The crocs weren’t just hungry, they were angry. Especially the one that had nearly hit me. It fixed its eyes on me, and there was more than ordinary animal intelligence there. It opened its jaws again and reeled back its tongue for another shot. As the knob passed me, I saw a red shine and realized: its tongue was wrapped around a piece of iron the size of my fist.

Iron tools! The damn crocs were already technically in the iron age! And they were clobbering us with it.

Well, I’d come here to get iron. And damned if I was leaving without it. I still had the hooked ceramic knife in my hand. Dropping the wicker basket, I reached out and grabbed the iron nodule, bringing the knife underneath the thick, cord-like tongue and yanking it back.

Ceramic is sharp. Unbelievably sharp. The croc’s tongue resisted a little. But once the knife bit in, all that resistance evaporated and the tip of its tongue split away, along with the iron it clutched. The croc-knocker roared in pain, tongue whipping around with the released tension. It fixed its yellow eyes on me and barreled through the water. It ignored the closest goblin, the unfortunate frog-vomitter, and came straight on.

Maybe I didn’t think this plan through all the way.

I sloshed my way toward shore. Meanwhile, all the goblin builders on the shore had grabbed spears, and shouted a rallying war cry as they charged toward me with the intent to protect their king. I passed the line, prize clutched in my hand.

More poppers went out, and another RPP fired from the shore at one of the other croc-knockers. But nothing seemed to deter the bog monsters. I even saw the wranglers launch the net at one of them, but it just dipped below the surface and gave it the slip before coming back up to crunch on another guard.

We were getting our collective butts handed to us. I reached the shore, dripping and gasping for air, with my prize pressed to my chest. Most of the other iron harvesters had made it to shore as well with their spoils. But at least half the fighters had been swept aside like detritus on the surface of the water. But it hadn’t been as big a slaughter as it might have without the ceramic armor or the stone-sloth totem blessing.

I stumbled my way up the bank alongside the rest of the harvesters and what remained of the guards. We weren’t even a threat to the crocs. We were snacks. Between the crushing claws and chomping jaws, and that over-leveled alpha, we’d bounced off the bog again in glorious fashion. At least I’d gotten a little trophy. But I couldn’t imagine the iron ore we’d collected would amount to being worth the the price of 10+ goblins. But, where at first you don’t succeed, iterate and test again. We’d learn from this and—

A growing cascade of squawks brought my attention to the two croc-knockers that levered themselves up on the bank and began stomping around the shore, chasing goblins back into the forest bordering the swamp carrying their baskets of meager takings. They caught sight of me, and their eyes slid up to my bone crown, then narrowed. Oh hell. They could recognize me. Both bellowed deep, guttural growls and started dragging themselves toward me.

Best not to stick around. We beat a hasty retreat, not stopping until the tower was back in sight, along with the builders. The crocs had stopped chasing us at the treeline, and the scrappers had caught up in their bog disguises. But I wasn’t going to risk getting caught out by the shadow wolf that had possessed the cliffords, either.