Chapter 51 - King Ringo

“Boss, boss! Wake up!”

I came to with a wicked headache and rubbed the spot of blackened fur on my belly where the spear had singed me. I was in a loose cage woven from bog tree branches and vines. In the cage next to me knelt a hobgoblin scrapper who had a meaty hand on my shoulder. He looked a bit rough around the gills, but no worse than I felt.

“Where are we?”

“Boglin village,” said the scrapper. He scowled. “Nasty snot-nosed boglins. Ain’t even got fur wot like a propp’r goblin. Spotted ‘em the other night. When the wranglers hopped on the cliffies to chase ‘em down, they made scarce and some nasty cloud took over the puppers. The boggies caught me from behind with those zap-sticks and brought me back here.”

I pulled myself to a sitting position, groaning. The sun was still up but dropping low to the horizon. I wasn’t sure how far I’d been moved, but it must have been a decent distance because there was a village here, and not a small one, either. I counted at least 20 goblins attending tasks—with a diligence I recognized.

A group of six were working together to erect more wooden structures, while another set shaved down poles. Yet a third group had strung up a neatly-quartered turtle to bleed out into dried mud bowls. The turtle I’d seen had been level 9. That was no easy foe for rudderless goblins.

Something had moved their hands in the same direction.

“The boglins have a king, don’t they?” I asked.

The scrapper nodded. “Seen ‘im. Ringo. Big bloke, fish crown.”

“Fish crown?”

The scrapper held his hands up at the side of his head. “Fish crown.”

I sighed. “Looks like I need to have a talk with fish-crown Ringo, king-to-king.”

Several of the boglins, drawn by the noise, drew close and gave us curious looks. They didn’t move like the goblins of Tribe Apollo. They were slow, smooth, and almost sinuous, whereas forest goblins were manic, jerky, and chompy. The boglins moved like, well, the bog; in such a way that you might lose them against the background if you weren’t paying attention. Their skin being the color of mud with pin-lines of light green that looked like peat moss only lent to that effect, as did the greenish-yellow fur that grew in patches on their heads, neck, and shoulders. But they could move fast if they wanted to. The one who had thrown the spear at me did so in the blink of an oversized eye.

One of the onlookers knocked the back of his spear against my cage. I backed away, and they undid the simple latch from outside that I probably could have jimmied from the inside without much trouble. I think it was more to hold the door shut than keep me secure. The only problem was, I had nowhere to go. Even if I could get out of the cage (easy), past the native boglins (slightly harder), and off this island (harder still), I’d still be in the middle of the swamp filled with predators and a hostile goblin tribe (impossible).

So, instead of busting out, I waited for them to open the paltry jail and got to my feet. At least they’d left my prosthetics attached. They pointed at them for a moment, and I looked over at the scrapper.

“They was trying to decide wot yer legs were.”

I saw a handful of small rocks change hands, and then I realized they were scales of some creature. This tribe had developed currency—and gambling. Good god, the idea of goblins at a Texas Hold’Em tournament… well, some things are too horrific to consider. That was one technology I didn’t want Tribe Apollo adopting.

Slender fingers wrapped around my arms as the two boglins grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me out onto the loose mud of the village.

“Boss!” the scrapper shouted after me.

“Sit tight,” I said. “I’ll be back.”

I managed to keep on my blades as they scrambled me up the hill. This was what passed for high ground in the bog, I suppose. I’m surprised goblins were able to survive without a bluff, here. But they’d clearly managed to avoid being wiped out by croc-knockers long enough to grow into a tribe of 30, maybe 35 strong.

Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

A wooden fort dominated the top of the hill, held in place by mud slathered against the base of the walls. Two boglins guarding the front of the fort moved a section of the wall out of the way so my escorts could shuffle me through the opening and into the apex of the bog tribe’s village.

I’ll be honest. I smelled the king before I saw him. The unmistakable musk of old microwaved fish preceded the king. He came out carried on chair supported by 4 goblins, legless and fat, with a mane of slicked-back greenish hair whereas the other boglins were more patchy and mottled. The mane was slicked down by some sort of oil, or grease. On top of that, what I can only describe as a fish crown, because no amount of words could ever do this rancid thing justice. As if I needed more proof of his kingship, his ambulatorily-challenged stumps waggled in the air as the 4 goblins struggled under the weight.

“It’s true, then!” he said, pointing a stick towards my crown of bones. His chair bearers managed to get him mostly facing me, but one or the other would lose balance and he would have to twist his neck to keep me in sight as the raised chair tilted or rotated. “An invading king from the forest!”

I shrugged out of the grip of the two boglins and stepped forward. The king cringed back, but I was clearly unarmed. Curious that he would be so skittish with 40-odd tribesmen ready to die for him. “I’m not invading!” I protested.

“Ho-hum! You built your tower on my shore, floated your balloon of stitched skins as a threat, and attacked the knockers to show you had no fear. Strange way of not invading!”

“I’m not lying,” I said. But I had to admit, from King Ringo’s perspective, my actions could be read as very, very hostile. In a way, I was his javelines. I was the unknown force on his doorstep threatening his sovereignty and the safety of his tribe. He had no way of knowing that I had no ill intentions against him.

“I don’t want to live in the bog, I just wanted to collect some iron ore! It grows on the peat moss, and even the crocs have it in their mouths.”

The king looked down, and I noticed a scruffy-looking goblin somewhat smaller than the others.

“Erm, King Ringo, I believe he means the clangy minerals the croc knockers use to incapacitate their prey. But this is impossible. No one would be foolish enough to pry open the maw of a ‘knocker to steal their knob.”

“I know what iron is, fool!” the king shifted uncomfortably. “You’re right, of course. You can’t beat a croc.”

A talking variant, some kind of advisor goblin. Just what I needed, some crooked vizier figure. I reached down, fumbling for my snack pack, which had been taken, along with my knife, the poppers, and my tools. “Where are my things? I can prove it.”

King Ringo waved his hand. One of his goblins slinked away, and returned a few minutes later with my belt, my knife, and most surprising of all, the glider I’d dropped from the balloon. I was worried he would handle the poppers too roughly, but he showed adequate care with all my things. Rather than bring them to me, he took them to the boglin king, who began to root through with much less finesse. He fished around in the snack pack and pulled out the severed tongue I’d kept, throwing it on the ground as if it were a snake.

His advisor variant knelt down to examine it. “It is indeed as he claims. A tongue this size must have belonged to a full-grown ‘knocker. Curious, great king.”

“It’s not curious!” barked the king. "It’s down-right suspicious! As is the rest of this!”

He pulled out my ceramic hook knife and waved it in the air. “Swamp Spirit, what manner of blade is this? Some sort of mud? And don’t tell me unknown, again!”

From his frustrated squawk, I imagine the System must have done just that.

“It’s not mud, o’ king,” I said, taking a page from Rufus’ book. Flattery couldn’t hurt. “It’s clay, such that we find in the forest and bake or fire. It becomes hard enough to hold an edge.”

King Ringo held it between his thumb and forefinger as his stumps wiggled. “You seek more of this in my land!”

“I’ve already told you, I just wanted iron ore.”

The king snuffled as he dug through more of my pack. He pulled out one of the poppers, raising it up and testing it with his teeth. I moved forward, intent on warning him, but he recoiled, shrieking, and I felt the jolt of a hard rod hit my lower back. Lightning shot across every muscle in my abdomen, sending me to the ground, coughing. One of the boglins had hit me with his spear. Surprisingly, I felt no blood when I probed the spot.

After I recovered, I straightened. “What are you frightened of, King Ringo?” I asked. “You’re a goblin king, are you not? You can’t die while you still have a tribe.”

“You’d like me to think that, wouldn’t you?” he sneered. He leveled the knife at my chest. “But a king can kill a king. Were I not so noble, I could gut you, here and now. I could take your goblins. Then, I could take your tribe, as you no-doubt planned to do with mine.” He settled back. “Lucky for you, I’m so kind and generous.”

System?

About the king killing kings thing, at least. I swallowed. Even the javeline couldn’t kill me outright—though, they’d tried. This goblin held my life in its fat, webbed hands. “So what’s stopping you?”

Ringo leaned back, reveling in his power. “Why should I? What use have I for blue-furred squabblers who can’t even swim? Keep to your forests and trees. What care is it of mine? But my scouts told me you had a fire. The swamp is too wet to burn. You must carry it with you.” he shook the popper. “Is it within these? You have knives sharper than flint and towers and floating sacks of skin and winged, whistling flyers. I want it all!”

“You want the secret technology of Tribe Apollo?” I asked.

“Yes! Give it to me!” he shared a look with his advisor. “Then, I’ll consider letting you go.”

Clearly neither had any intention of doing that. But I didn’t think he’d kill me, either. I spread my hands. “Well why didn’t you say so? I’m happy to share.”

The boglin king’s advisor narrowed his eyes at me. “Sire, he must be lying.”

“I know that!” said Ringo, kicking his stubby leg remnants. “Take him back to his hut and give me time to think.”

The two boglins grabbed me again, and I struggled. “But I just said I’d give you what you asked for!”

“That’s why it’s so suspicious!” snarled Ringo. He tested the edge of my knife against his thumb. “No one gives a goblin anything. If I’ve learned anything here, it’s that.” He sunk his head into his shoulders. “Everything in the world looks down on goblins. If they don’t eat us, they kill us for sport. Mark me, I’ll wring the secrets from you, yet. My tribe needs that knowledge. And you’re not leaving until I get it.”