Chapter 66 - The Tails of Two Piggies

I found Armstrong dusting off his fur near the blast site. The other scrappers held a javeline mauler that I recognized.

“I know you,” I said. “You’re Hrodd.”

“Hrott,” he snarled. “What is become of Rotte?”

I glanced back toward the reserve that I’d led down from the top of the bluff. “Dead,” I said. “He’ll trouble me no more.”

Hrott surged against the scrappers, and very nearly got loose. He was in his teen levels, after all. Quite a force to be reckoned with. It was no surprise he’d survived the blast.

“I kill talking goblin for this!” he roared, spittle flying from under his helmet. “Lord of Habberport pay big for your capture, but I will bring him only your head! Will slaughter your—”

“Armstrong!” I said, holding my hand out. He dropped his rifle into it, and it very nearly drove me to the ground. I swung it around, struggling to lift it to point at the mauler chief’s chest.

Boom!

A red button blossomed on Hrott’s chest armor. His words choked off as the realization took him. His legs gave out under him, and the javeline leader sagged to the ground, head drooping forward. His captors tentatively let his arms drop. They fell limp at the javeline’s sides.

I handed the rifle back and raised my voice. “Take his helmet, and their tails! We’re making a new totem to commemorate this day!”

A resounding cheer erupted from the surviving goblins. They pulled knives and cleavers, each one eager to be the goblin that claimed the prize. They swarmed in, and I backed out of the press to take a breath.

The brothers had menaced my tribe almost since the day I arrived on Rava. They were responsible for hundreds of goblin deaths, including several that had happened through lethal wounds dealt to me personally. More than that, they were disgusting traffickers of goblin parts. This wasn’t like Ringo and his under-educated swamp boglins. I wasn’t here to make friends with the Javeline. They lost that chance. I wanted them out of my forest.

There were other survivors, of course. But the tribe had a food shortage. Seemed like an easy two-birds-one-stone kind of situations.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

System, how many days can the tribe subsist off the fallout from this battle?

We’d lost enough goblins and gained enough piggies to stave off our immediate food concerns. A little pork goes a long way, and I had no doubt the noblins would stretch every meal out of it that they could. But they’d be back to hammering iron soon enough. Industry awaited. And now, the biggest obstacle to our tribe’s growth had been soundly defeated.

I summoned my taskmasters for a powwow while the tribe began the task of collecting anything of value from the battlefield—a task that would likely take the rest of the day and a good portion of tomorrow.

“I know you all wanted to keep me safe,” I said. “But it’s clear that I can’t just sit back and let the tribe do the dirty work. I can’t just be a king, I have to be a leader. Starting tomorrow, we’re re-staffing Canaveral. Now that our tribe is safe, the next priority is food security, and then unification of the other bluffs.”

“And tonight?”

“Tonight we’re going to friggin’ party!”

* * *

Turns out goblins can get drunk off fermented bomb-fruit juice if you get at it before it goes explosive and boil the volatile bits out. Thank God for the igni bonus to heat-based crafting. The moon was fully lit by the time I stumbled over to the cuddle puddle and collapsed on top. But before I could go to sleep, the System notification window popped up. I squinted and waved it away, but it was insistent.

A 1-time spawning bonus.

A new skill has been unlocked - War Chief - your presence within 100 chooms (plus 10 chooms for every 100 members of your tribe) now increases the combat power and crafting speed of all goblins by 10%

You have unlocked an additional variant choice based on your deeds. You may choose between Obblyn Partizans or Noblin Canoneers.>

Well, seeing as we’d just won a huge victory in large part thanks to firearms, some bigger goblins specialized in carting around some heavier firepower seemed prudent. If I had to guess, the rounds we were using were about equal in power to a small pistol round, or maybe a varmint rifle. That was enough for goblin-sized threats like the javeline, who were only slightly taller than we were. But it was only a matter of time until we came across something needing more oomph. Goblins being only a meter tall and about as strong as a 6-year-old somewhat limited their proficiency with higher calibers.

Give me the Noblin Cannonneers.

The Cannonneers, please.

Christ, the second one!

Sleep well, King Apollo.>

* * *

The spell was a success.

But where are they?

The stars are blind in this matter.

The Great Spirit is silent.

We will scour the globe.

There is no need. If the stars are blind…

…then they are shadowed…

…by Raphina’s watchful eye.

End of Arc 1