Up on a cliff, sticking out of a small hill, a green man’s face peeked out from a bush. Orange eyes surveyed the landscape ahead. The landscape was full of dwarves, trudging on foot, riding rams, and driving wagons, their destination tracing the rough road stretching along the north and east of the Lands of Olam. A land that, several decades ago, had been a place bustling with the life of many different kin, but today lay almost empty. The goblin up on the cliff, counting the dwarves – especially the armed dwarves – had travelled across a land of empty farm houses, burned villages, and regrown pastures and -fields. All to be here. In hiding, spying, his muscled left arm gripping a shortbow, it too hidden by the bush. Not drawn, but there for comfort, and his own safety.
“255, 256, 257... 258.” The goblin man’s deep quiet voice got to a count of 259 before he gave up getting the exact number, having lost track of who he’d counted so far. Instead, he used his counting so far to estimate a little under 400 dwarves, about a third of them visibly armed. The real danger though, he considered, was the 30 or so ram-mounted cavalry. These warriors sat in their saddles with thick plated armor, and held axes nearly as tall as they were. A fearsome sight.
“Who’s your lord?” an old voice came from behind. The goblin man froze, eyes bulging, fear surging, an inner chill descending down his naked exposed back like death itself had spoken. Ever so slowly, the goblin dared to push himself up from his knees, rustling the leaves of the bush as he turned his head, finding behind him a shape. A woman, more precisely, a witch in black, wrinkled, with sour lips, and eyes shining of emerald magic. Absorbing these details into his conscious though, he noticed a slight distortion about the woman’s figure. Around her outline was this black flame, and as he looked on, he was certain he could see a hint of the afternoon’s daylight going into and then through her, the rays breaking like going into water, where they instead became a dark blue discoloration, spreading out below across the grass, like her shadow painted blue. An ominous sight, his instincts assured him.
“Now?” The old woman raised an eyebrow, impatient. “Speak man!” Commanding she was too, and the goblin sensed this overwhelming presence of magic, like being in the presence of a great dungeon lord. Seconds passed as the goblin merely stared over his shoulder. The goblin, whose looks were characteristic of his kin: fit, short like a dwarf, his cheeks round, and his face hairless – he knew hardly what to do here, taken by surprise by this witch, but as the seconds ticked by, he decided on carefully crawling backwards out the bush, turn his body around, and to listen to his instincts. Coming over in a crouch, he squatted down in front of the woman, looking up and into her emerald eyes.
“I do not know your face, lord, but, the lord that I support is Dontan, Lord of Valorum, and Lord of The Dungeon of Passage. What, may I ask, is your name?”
The old woman ignored his question. “Dontan? Surely, Dontan is not here alone?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I’d never believe him to have the guts to come out here alone, with his army, to target this large of a dwarven caravan all by himself. Who else is in on this scheme?”
The goblin quieted again, weighing his own uncertainties and suspicions at this stranger who’d found him out here, alone, when he was trying to stay concealed. “If you can but tell me your name, powerful lord” he re-iterated, “I can tell you, I’m sure, who else but my lord is partaking in this mission.”
To the goblin’s surprise, the witch took a step forward, and squatted next to him, coming face to face. “Heeh” she sounded at him, disapproval in her tone, and her teeth showing, almost like a growl. Curiously though, the goblin found her mouth produced no air with the sound, even this close. Almost as-if, his mind told him, she had no breath. “My name” the witch continued, “is respected by all dungeon lords who value their life.” With a grimace of general unhappiness, the witch rose back up, straightening herself. She stepped past the goblin, over to besides the bush, where a clear view revealed the procession of dwarves a little less than a hundred meters away. She raised a finger and pointed. “That dwarf over there, riding a white bear, that is Evenin of Redratall.” The goblin turned again and crouched over. Coming next to the elderly woman, he squatted down and followed her finger. “She is under my protection. If your lord wishes to live, he will respect my wishes. Tell him that Irridiklara The Witch forbids him, and all his allies, from attacking this caravan.” She looked down beside her, down into the squatting goblin’s eyes. Then, like a blink of an eye, the woman vanished.
The goblin, caught by total surpise, cast his eyes all around him. Seeing nothing, he looked towards all the directions along the cliff and the hill, trying to see where she’d gone. But she was nowhere. “Huh” he told himself, and decided to eventually crawl back into his bush. Only there to see, down in the distance and walking along the caravan: a new black figure.
Over at the caravan, Evenin of Redratall, the returning dwarven envoy to Ermos, rode on her Snowman, deep in her own thoughts. Around her was a rather open landscape. A small hill, surrounded by yellow-brown grasslands curving up and down along the horizon. A few assemblages of trees dotted this landscape along with some other, lonelier trees. Meanwhile in front of her, and in front of all the other dwarves, along the road, another abandoned farm. “Hmmf” Evenin sighed through her nose. The dwarf woman felt a mild sadness inside, looking at it. Even though she’d seen such sights many times before, still it was a depressing reminder. The building’s architecture was an ornate kind of brightly colored woodcraft, so this particular one had once been a small urban elven home. Rural urban elves? What a true contradiction of terms. Yet couldn’t it just had been so? She shook her head at it. The farm had 3 buildings, including a large silo, which, along with the overgrown fields on either side of the road, made it apparent that this farm had once been growing grains. Food for Olam City, she surmised. A most likely scenario. The City of Olam, after all, had only a couple of human generations ago been a great city to the south. The capital and seat of the urban elven King of Olam, before it and the land fell to the dungeon lords. Now that city, hidden beyond at least 2 horizons, was little but a ruin of burned and cracked wood. So much loss here around us. And not just the elves. The vampires. Their lords, their communities, their stonebrick castles; gone and empty. And the others. The werebeast? Their villages scatter this land no less with abandonment. And the beast societies with their wild-gnomes? Gone from here. Or in permanent hiding, too afraid to even associate with other kin, least their locations be leaked to the dungeon lords. We erected guild strongholds in this land to reclaim it, yet, there’s barely anything left to defend. Every time I travel here I get these feelings: always, like stepping through somebody else’s collective trauma, seeing only the remains, only what I and my people couldn’t save... Not against their spies, the treachery–
“–Evenin!” a voice suddenly spoke. The envoy, mentally interrupted by the outside world, extricated herself out from her own thoughts, to look around. She didn’t immediately see anyone in her front, where her eyes had rested. And when she turned left, then right, all she could see was just a few plate-armored dwarves mounted on rams around her. Not until, that is, she looked behind herself, where she saw – Irridiklara? – except surrounded by some dark flaming magic, and below, cast from the witch’s robe, some kind of dark blue shadow discoloring the ground and the grass.
“Irrid, what a surprise to see you here.” The dwarf lifted her right hand to gesture around the witch’s form. “All that means that you’re doing something quite magical I suppose?”
Irridiklara, who had hundreds of levels of power, decided to use her excessive agility to speedwalk forward, smoothly and silently over to Evenin’s side.
“Are you using The Footstool of Gardamosh?” Evenin whispered towards her friend.
“Something to that sort” Irridiklara replied without direct eye-contact. “I came only to tell you that you are being watched by scouts. Dungeon lord scouts.” The witches eyes looked to the landscape around them, as if trying to discern more scouts hiding in the assemblages of trees and bushes. “I strongly suspect there’s an imminent attack coming for the caravan, and you–” she turned to look forward but raised her chin to give Evenin the side-eye, “–may be the main target.”
To Irrid’s mild surprise, Evenin’s first reaction was to smile. “Oh, and you are looking out for me are you? How touching of you to decide to come and tell me directly.”
The elder witch rolled her eyes. “These won’t be a small band of foolish attackers, Evenin. You should take this warning to heart: they will be planning something grand to stand up to your caravan’s numbers, I’m sure of it.”
“Well” the envoy responded, a little more serious in her tone, “that is not good...” She looked into the ground, ponderous for a moment. “Sounds like I may actually end up in a fight then.”
“Been in any fights before?” The witch looked up into the dwarf’s eyes.
“None that involved armies where I was anything but an observer” she frankly responded.
“And with your neglected constitution...” In that pause their eyes met fully, and the witch’s warning clearly came through to the dwarf. “Avoid dying. The world would be much more of an uncertain place without you, Minister Girl. I’d say” Irridiklara sighed inwardly, “it would even be a lesser world. But that’s about as much affection as you’ll get out of me.”
“Oh how lucky I am” Evenin tried joking, but the news did actually weigh heavy on her, and her lips, eyes, and expression remained focused in serious thought, even as her words tried to be playful.
“Know this, before I go” Irridiklara added, making the dwarf exit her own thoughts again to look at the witch. “There will be goblins, probably. I found a goblin checking you out. And he was one of Dontan’s. But I do not believe for a moment that Dontan would come after you all by himself. He is too cautious, I know that boy all too well. So there will be more dungeon lords I’m sure. I can’t tell who or how many, but they’ll be well prepared. And so must you be. Take no chances the next days or week, do not feel out of harms way before you get to the start of Melrum’s trail. They’re unlikely to attack you so far away from the mountains, but it could happen almost anytime before that. Don’t let them surprise you.” Irridiklara stared with an intense seriousness into Evenin’s eyes. The dwarven woman simply nodded three times. Irridiklara continued staring all the way into the third nod, before nodding back. Then, as the witch cast her gaze away and over to the horizon, she vanished.
Evenin, briefly taken aback by Irrid’s magical disappearance, subsequently sat back on her furry ride, for a moment thinking. “Forward Snowman” she spoke softly, and the bear pawed his way forward a little faster, letting the diplomat catch up to a particular plate-armored dwarf which’d been riding on his ram in front of her.
“Cavalry Sergeant Castiron?” The dwarf, who had a long, thick ginger beard lightly tied in 3 places, and large thick ginger eyebrows, as well as a round helmet with neck- and nose guards, turned to look sideways over at the approaching bear-mounted woman.
“Envoy” he responded with a nod, not much surprised at being spoken to.
“Castiron, did you hear my conversation?”
“I got the gist of it, Envoy” he nodded again.
“What do you think of it?”
“Hmm.” The cavalry sergeant turned to look forward again, down into the ground ahead of them, a brief pause for thought. “I think that if what The Witch says is true” his eyes returned to her, “then we do as she says, and prepare well.”
“What would you recommend?”
“Hmm.” He looked away again, out over at the horizon, mouth opening as if waiting to be filled by mustering words. “First–” he began, and then stared into nothing for a second more, “–we should tell the troops and the rest of the caravan at our next break. While I am concerned that there may be some undue stress involved at telling the whole caravan, we must acknowledge that were a sufficiently large attack to happen, as The Witch did indicate, then it would be paramount that all dwarves be ready to sound the alarm, and be ready to fight. We’re not an easy prey as is, but we’re not a true army either, and we would be vulnerable against an actual enemy army.”
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“Understood, cavalry sergeant.” Evenin, her hands deep in Snowman’s fur, looked to the ground herself for a second. “I’d say, you make a fine analysis, and I approve of your plan.” She nodded without looking at him, then met his eyes once more. “Let’s make it happen at our next stop!”
A couple of days later, and our goblin was out again, far from his kin, hiding in a bush. This time, he was hiding in the surrounding lowlands, his particular position surrounded by an assemblage of trees. Like before, he’d chosen this exact location for the good view it gave out towards the dwarven caravan passing by. Today, though, something was different about the people he was watching. There had been a drastic uptick in the number of weapon-carrying dwarves, he was sure of it. As he tried counting once more, the number of armed dwarves in his estimation went from less than 150, to closer to 300. And that, “That is bad news” the man whispered to himself. For he had already relayed information from his last findings. Now, those findings needed an update. After all, if the enemy’s forces had adapted and grown, so too must theirs. The goblin waited for the whole procession to pass along the rough dirt road surrounded by fields and grasslands, and stalked them from the morning’s bright sun, through the caraven’s midday and late afternoon breaks, and until nightfall, whereupon the dwarves stopped to set up a large encampment out on a flat dry field, their wooden wagons surrounding their encampment like improvised fortifications, with numerous dwarves standing guard. Here, our goblin made his last observations of the day, crawling at a distance in the tall grass. In the commotions of late supper being prepared and the vigilant guarding, he had to be very careful to avoid being seen, and to sneak past the dwarven ram cavalry, which patrolled and scouted the outer areas of the encampment with serious glances, their hands tight around broad enchanted battleaxes. A single swing of which was deadly enough to end the scout’s life.
“Too strong” the goblin whispered to himself. “Night time is not a good time. Too strong.” Shaking his head, the goblin shot a last look through the tall grass, before he decided to crawl back from where he’d come. However, a couple of ram-mounted dwarves rams were getting close, and while the goblin’s green skin did hide him well within the brownish grass under the dark clouded sky, there was a chance the dwarves would discern the trail of bent and compressed grass which followed the goblin everywhere he crawled. So while he couldn’t undo the trail he’d left behind him, he took the time to be extra careful turning and then retracing his path out of the range of dwarven ears, and of the sight of dwarven eyes. It was a bit of an operation itself, really, but similar to ones he’d done many times before, all since this dwarven caravan first was spotted in Olam. About 10 minutes it took, and then, many dozens of meters away: he was finally out. There the goblin took a chance and stood up, and began a sprint. Around him the landscape conveniently formed a downwards slope, and his relatively small figure was thus hidden, as he shot across it into the darkness of night.
For nearly 3 hours this goblin continued on at haste. Sprinting, jogging, or when necessary walking at quick speeds, making his way through fields of sharp crisp dry grass, then navigating forests of sparse, short, yellow-leafed trees, and finally splashing into the slow creeks marking off the land. All this repeated itself many times. Ever so often, a collection of empty countryside houses, barns, and storehouses also passed him by. But just he ran, feets hurting, stomach growling, yet the fire of a scout’s role burned in his heart. Never did he stop for long. Not until, that is, he came upon the abandoned werebeast village.
In the dark of the night, most would indeed guess this place to be abandoned, for few things would indicate otherwise. But, somebody did notice the scout’s return. Somebody, which the scout would not have similarly spotted, had he not known where to look for them. But he knew. Most of the village was surrounded by earthen mounds, against whose flattened vertical surfaces, log buildings had been erected. And up there, up on the wild grass roofs of the these log buildings so perfectly melded in with the mounds, there sat his goblin lookouts. And below them, inside the buildings? Over 200 other goblins, side-by-side, tucked together in great snoring choirs of peaceful slumber. Or at least as peaceful as anyone can be, waiting for the brutalities of war.
The scout, which came upon the village speeding out from a nearby tall grass field, and arrived in between 2 of the village’s larger mounds, slowed abruptly as he spotted a pair of orange eyes staring at him from above. As he slowed down, to a careful walking pace, he soon spotted a second and third pairs of orange goblin eyes, staring at him from the low sliding grass roofs. He thought he could hear a bow string slowly being strung.
“It is me, Seish The Scout. I have important news for Promise Sausage.” He stopped walking altogether, and stood there, hands up in calming gesture.
The eyes of the mostly camouflaged goblin bodies merely continued to look at him for the next few seconds, blinking and then giving each other glances. “Promise Sausage just went to sleep” one of the eyes’ owners replied. “Can it wait till morning?”
“I...” Seish stopped himself to consider the question, “... I think Sausage would want to know this now. It is likely to interfere with the plan.”
The 3 pairs of orange eyes glanced at each other again. Soon, a shadowy arm rose up and waved for the scout to pass. “You know where Sausage sleeps.”
Seish The Scout nodded up at the 3 lookouts, and resumed his walk.
Passing into the village grounds, the goblin found himself surrounded by 6 grass-roofed, mound-adjacent log houses in every main direction, though not all at the same distance. Rather, together, these mounds and buildings stretched along an elongated clearing, which had the function of a dirt street. At either end of this dirt street were wells with stacks of buckets, and Seish, knowing which log house he needed to go to, crossed this clearing, over to the other side and past one log house. There was nothing particularly remarkable about this next log house which he stopped outside of, it was quite similar to the others, but he knew: here slept Promise Sausage, leader of their goblin flock, and warband.
The wooden door, which had no lock (no need for one in the countryside), creaked mildly as Seish tried, very gently, to open it, and not disturb his snoozing comrades. Peeking inside, it was immediately clear that this log house had been divided up into 3 roughly equal parts. The room he subsequently entered was the common room, with a small kitchen, some empty shelves, and a table with 2 benches to eat at. Equipment and supplies, from goblin-size iron shovels to wide sacks of packed food, had been left inside here, spread around in piles on the kitchen counter, on the table, under the table, and around on the floor. This to keep it close, dry, and free of insects and worms. A lone goblin snoozed on a bench also. It wasn’t Promise Sausage though, only some random goblin Seish had seen before but didn’t know personally. On his left and right sides, 2 closed wooden doors led into what he presumed to be bedrooms. He’d not been here before, so he did not know which door to try first, but decided on going left. Again, a small involuntary creak announced his entrance. Inside, 6 goblins lay snoring, with 3 comfortable on a large bed, and 3 spread down on the floor, including 1 goblin who raised her head to look up and over at him, eyes tired and face pained from the interruption.
“Sorry” Seish whispered very quietly at the woman. He looked around, searching for his target. On the left side of the bed, next to 2 other goblin men, he found him – Promise Sausage. Very gently, the scout stepped across the floor, over 2 sleeping goblins, and to the bed’s left side. For someone not a Tumi goblin, Promise Sausage didn’t looked much different from any of the other goblins present. The only marks of a Promise, which Tumi goblins would definitely notice, was the chest tattoo, which in this case was a fat, juicy, pork sausage, drawn to look stuffed with melting dripping cheese and spices, and so big it ran all the way across the green man’s bare chest. The tattoo glowed ever so slightly with reddish magic too, and as Seish came to stand close, he leaned over the sleeping Promise. The scout felt his mouth water at the magical sight, and at the thought of their next upcoming sausagefest. For this brewing salivation was grounded in more than the mere imagery before him, and its simple association. Rather, this was his stomach calling out to his goblin roots. For in Tumi culture, goblins elected their leaders thusly: only the most well-respected goblin chefs became leaders of warbands. Their names? That wasn’t just a name, but an actual real promise, of every 3 months, to hold a great feast of their most popular and cherished dish. For the price of this promise, fulfilled at least every 3 months without break, for this other goblins flocked to follow the Promise, even into war. That was the true power of a Tumi goblin leader: the willing stomachs of their followers. Armies may march on their stomachs, but Tumis live by their stomachs.
But their next sausagefest was 3 weeks from now, and as a single drop fell down onto Promise Sausage’s chest with a SPLAT!, Seish grasped back control from his starving, vision-fueled urges, and focused on the sleeping goblin’s less distracting face instead. “Promise Sausage” Seish whispered, and as no immediate response was forthcoming, leaned in to whisper into the goblin’s ear. “Promise Sausage, I come with news.”
Sausage opened his eyes slightly, peering sleepily at the goblin standing over him. He softly yawned, “auohhh”, then whispered a proper response. “Why have you woken me up?”
“I bare important news of the enemy, Promise Sausage. Please, let’s go outside, so we may discuss it without waking the others.”
Sheish snuck back out the door. Yawning in series every step of the way, the goblin leader managed to get out of bed, step over and past his fellow sleeping goblins, into the common room, and then after the scout, out the house door and into the night, where clouds had recently dispersed, revealing in their stead a bright moon, with moonlight spread all across the village grounds. Together, the goblin leader shambling with sleepiness, they stepped over to one of the wells, where the leader immediately leaned in on one of the plank coverings surrounding the hole into the well, his tired face held up by his leaning arm, and staring at Sheish. “What news, scout?”
Sheish stepped in close, leaning on the planks like his leader, and soon relayed all of the days findings, which took a few minutes to properly convey. In the course of it, the goblin leader became mildly more awake, with his other hand findings its way into his mouth, his teeth gently chewing on his fingers in thoughtfulness.
GRRRUUUH! Sheish’s belly sounded, and the eyes of the goblin war-chef wandered over to Sheish’s embarrassed eyes, and then down to the attention-seeking belly.
GRRRUUUH!
The leader took his hand out of his mouth. “Long since you’ve eaten?”
Sheish The Scout, who’d ran for hours out in the open air, and had only had one small, lightly packed lunch, and some plucked berries on the way, all the day long ever since the break of dawn when he’d first set out, and who was also getting to the point of exhaustion there where he stood, nodded mournfully back at his favourite source of dinner.
“Wait here” the war-chef commanded, then went back into the log house. It didn’t take long though, before the great Promise returned, in his left hand a blessed mouth-watering spiced dry sausage, with a piece of dried out bread from earlier in the day. “This should help keep you going for a bit longer. And also this” with his right he held out a small bag of roasted nuts and dried fruit, “should keep your mind sharp now as we converse, if you eat it first.” The scout didn’t need to be asked twice, but happily devoured the offerings of his Promise in the suggested order.
“Hmm” the Promise threw a couple of pieces of dried fruit into his own mouth, as he thought about what’d been said. “Mmm” he sounded with some uncertainty, and Seish sighed happily next to him. The meal wasn’t much to the scout, but it was a little peace of paradise compared to starvation. “This is not good news.”
Sheish looked to the Promise, but did not comment.
“We need to tell Lord Dontan that he must get more forces to come join us, and quick. Our attack in 3 nights from now would be a disaster with these developments. Far too many goblins would die, even with the flocks of the 2 other Promises, this would be much too costly a battle.” Swalling his last bit of fruit, the goblin leader stared out into the night for a moment, before leaning back in on the plank and lightly chewing on his other hand again. “Mmm-hmm... Also–“ he released his hand, “–a night attack is normally the best time to attack, but, if they are as alert as you say, and have figured out a way to repeatedly fortify their positions, it may as well be the worst. I will suggest we set up an ambush late in the afternoon instead. Let them walk themselves tired and hungry, while we wait: relaxed, fed, and ready to flank. That’s how we will, and how we must win this, I think. More numbers, take away their fortifications, and give our forces a superior state of preparedness.” His hand went back in, and he again chewed on himself with a ponderous mood.
Sheish licked at his fingers as he finished his last bit of bread and then spicy sausage. He looked over at his thinking war-chef. “What about the warnings of the Witch? Have you told Dontan of my meeting?”
“M-yes...” the hand escaped his teeth again. “But he believes the whole thing to be a bluff.” The leader stared into the darkness of the village grounds. “I’ve not met Irridiklara The Witch before myself, but the stories are all clear on one thing: if she is there to meddle, we shouldn’t. So let’s just hope this: that Dontan’s instincts are correct.”
“And if they’re not?” the scout raised an eyebrow.
“Then” the goblin leader started, before pausing dramatically, and nodding to himself. “Then: this is not our battle to fight, not even a league in which we can hope to stand a chance, nor be anything but the starter course of a long, long dinner of many meals. All of us, every goblin together, we’d be a meal devoured without effort, making but the barest of difference. And that’s not how I’m going to die” Promise Sausage stared over into Sheish’s eyes, “and not you either.”
The goblins went to sleep. And days passed, and nights passed, and more importantly for the Tumi goblins: many meals passed.
This was one week later.
The goblin scout was once more out in the overgrown fields, peering out over a precession of dwarves, rams, and wagons. However, this time he was not alone. This time, all around him: in the grass spots next to him, behind nearby trees, behind nearby boulders, and within small, cramped, dug out tunnels next to the dirt road, here a total of over 400 other goblins hid with him. Weapons in hand, hearts pounding, anxieties expressed in long heavy breaths... yet there was no sound loud enough to be carried by the air.
And behind this goblin force, waiting to be summoned forth from a distance? 600 more allies.