“We’ve all made mistakes, that much is true,”

But I wouldn’t say we’re the villains,

It counts who you are, and what you do,

Also which people you’re killing.”

— The Ballad of Sir Joe, by “Golden-Voiced” Garbeaux.

Wearily we rumbled on through the night, McGrue at the reins. In between dozing, Aimee and I stared out the window, suffering the rough dirt road from Bagatelle, leading towards the outskirts of the kingdom. Even the carriage struggled, flexing as its axles were pushed back and forth, in opposite directions, by a path that desperately needed maintenance.

“I feel as if we’re forgetting something,” said Aimee, distantly. “Something important…”

Half asleep, I yawned, “If it were important we’d remember. Try to get some rest.”

“Right, rest,” she yawned, yawns being contagious after all. “Surely it can wait until morning.”

We both slept; first I fell asleep, then she did. This I realized as my eyes snapped open a short time later, still in the dawning hours. With a great crack the carriage shuddered and bucked, as if it were settling deeper into loose, rocky soil. Aimee tipped onto the floor, waking with a start, “What was that?”

A drip began, like rain, “I’m not sure,” I said. Is it raining outside?” Then we sniffed the air, detecting something foul.

Pulling aside a shutter Aimee shook her head, “No. It’s foggy but a little dew wouldn’t cause the roof to leak. The carriage lurched to one side, and a torch seemed to light over her head, “McGrue?” called Aimee, “That barrel of yours. Is it full?”

“Huh? What?” came the half-orc’s voice, groggy, “Wuzzat? Barrel?” It sounded as if our designated driver had fallen asleep at the reins.

“We seem to be top heavy, McGrue. I’m asking you if that barrel is full,” she shouted back, stiffening.

“What? Full? Joe’s in there. Why?” he called back, his voice no sharper than before.

The carriage shifted up level, then bucked to the other side, and the roof itself moved down a few inches, the right wall popped free on one side and light streamed in through the gap, “Ye gods,” I shouted, “Stop!”

Then, worse; panic set in as a rivulet of stinking, brackish brine streamed into the carriage interior. A snore came in answer to our cries, then a snort, then a grunt, “Humzah?” McGrue had fallen asleep again.

“Sargon you idiot! We’re getting covered in Joe juice back here! Stop the carriage,” cried Aimee, enraged as her white gown became soiled in the increasing spray.

“What? Huh?” cried McGrue as we leveled out again, “We’re not there yet.”

Both Aimee and I screamed as the barrel’s edge was visible in the cabin, its sidel supported by the half-detached wall, its bottom lid ajar, a hand becoming visible as its full liquid contents, hundreds of gallons, thousands of pints, filled the cabin halfway and gushed out of the carriage in every direction. We cursed in a rage and quantity that neither of us ever had before as McGrue finally stopped the carriage, “Okay! What’s the big … oh!”

“You filled the whole giant pickle barrel with brine?” screamed Aimee, “How could you do something so stupid?”

“I’m getting you out! Hold on,” he called back, scuffling outside, wrestling with the door on the good wall.

The hand in the cabin seemed to twitch, “Joe’s in here, McGrue, and I swear he just moved,” I shouted.

“That’s impossible, Gabbo. Just keep your cool,” and he beat on the door, “The latch is stuck!”

“It’s because someone put a barrel weighing over a ton that then dumped into the cabin! On top of a horse-drawn carriage? What is wrong with you?” shouted Aimee, accusingly.

“Honey, I know you’re getting a little wet, but there’s no need to get nasty,” he replied, sounding annoyed, scraping at the door with something, possibly trying to pry the door open. Further creaking was heard.

Joe moved again, most of one arm now inside the cabin. “Aimee, Joe’s not animated right now, right? How’s he doing that?”

“No, he’s not animated. He can’t be. Maybe he’s just–” she screamed as, all at once, Joe fell into the cabin, the wall fell out, he slid down, all the liquid fell out in a wave and McGrue got the door open.

Standing there, dagger in hand, McGrue recoiled from the noise, “What? I got the door open. What’s the big deal?

I looked back and forth between the two as Aimee hyperventilated and McGrue squirmed. McGrue had caught sight of the giant barrel, rolling into the forest. All was quiet for just a moment. Joe was, indeed, still dead, his bloated flesh poking out between plates of armor. First taking a deep breath, Aimee screamed at the top of her lungs, sending all the birds in the trees skyward in terror.

—

Pulling the carriage into a nearby clearing, out of sight from the road, we waited as McGrue assessed the damage. “We’ll need fresh water to actually clean the thing, but I’ll cobble it back together. Lay the bastard corpse out in the sun to dry for now.”

“Why don’t you?” growled Aimee, “It’s your fault that diseased, fermented sewage soaked us.”

I was thrilled, For once I was part of the wronged group, angry at the one making the mistake. Petty? Yes. But I’m a petty person, “Seriously, Sargon. Look at my silks. I can’t possibly perform like this.”

Fire flared in his eyes, “Perform?” he growled, “You’re not performing anyway, you bleeding git! You can’t even play Air Guitar with your stupid magical pick!”

I perked up, “Why thank you for reminding me.” Rifling through my pack I found Ignus the shopkeep’s scroll, waterproofed with wax. The seal was broken, true, but little water penetrated. The tiny scroll was intact, and I began to study.

Sargon McGrue, normally the raging, righteous one in the group, groaned, rolled his eyes, and set about his thankless task. He wrestled with the massively heavy corpse of Joe, brought out tools to tack the carriage back together, and so on.

I sat on a tall stone, practicing the motions for Air Guitar. Summoning the instrument was a simple few motions and spoken nonsense that sounded vaguely like the strum of a real guitar. After a few tries, golden glitter manifested, felt almost solid, then faded away. “Ah! Almost had it. Almost…”

Aimee approached where I sat on my perch, grunting, waving the fetish of the necromancer Ignus, flicking bits of filth out of her gown. It was working, if only slowly, “Ugh. I … Garbeaux…”

“Bwa-yang,” I shouted, and held the Air Guitar for a brief moment, “Damnation!” I cleared my throat, “Sorry, Aimee. What is it?”

“Were we too hard on him?” She gripped her forehead with one hand, clearly distressed, before magically cleaning more of her gown.

“Who? Sargon?” I laughed, “He can take it. He’s the tough one, remember?”

“I don’t know. We all bring something to the table, but that’s no excuse. Yes, he’s tough, he’s a great fighter, but he hasn’t lived an easy life. Just because I’m strong in the ways of magic doesn’t mean that I don’t have feelings, so why would I be insensitive to him?”

“He screwed up. Isn’t this how we deal with that sort of thing? Bwa-yang!” I held the Air Guitar! It wavered, I struggled to maintain concentration, but it was there.

“It has been,” she said simply.

That got my attention and the Air Guitar faded, “Curses,” I looked up at Aimee, “You care about him, right? That’s what this is?”

“I care about you both,” and more filth went flying. The gown was mostly clean though her matted hair was still plastered to her shoulders.

“That’s different. You want to go easy on him because you two have feelings,” I felt the bile rise and regretted it immediately.

“While you’re still alone, right? Is that it?” Her eyes flared and her flick of filth, well-aimed, landed on my sodden shoes.

I held one palm out, “This isn’t about me. Yes, I’m alone–”

“We’re all alone, Garbeaux. We only have each other.”

“It’s not the same!” I grit my teeth, feeling rage I didn’t know I had. “You two were hired. I was sold by my college into the services of a murdering psychopath. I never had a choice. Yes, I wish I had someone. Yes, seeing you two together… I was surprised when I realized. You’re so different from one another.”

“He’s strong and sensitive. He’s enough,” she said, avoiding eye contact.

“I just … I can’t help but envy you. Both of you. We’re just friends. That was never in question. But you two, you’re becoming a unit. Something I’m outside of…”

Her eyes getting big, Aimee looked into mine, shocked, “Oh, Gar… I had no idea.”

At that very moment McGrue walked up, a low, flat note in his voice, “It’s done. The damned roof is propped up, next to the detached wall, both shielding Joe from sight. I’ll need someone to hold ‘em while I tack ‘em back on the carriage, but when the morning fog finishes burning off, it should all dry okay. We should start a fire, maybe boil up some of our dried meats. Maybe a little hunting. Not sure about the barrel…”

We both stared at him. There was a sadness there I hadn’t noticed before. We were this man’s family. I decided to speak up, “Good job, McGrue.”

He looked at me questioningly, shiftily, then muttered, “Yeah, I know.”

Boiling dried, salted meat in the water from our skins made for a poor meal, but at least it was easy. Small talk was difficult. We’d fought a pitched battle against a superior foe and won, then had one of the most disgusting experiences of our lives, and all without enough sleep for two days. If emotions were running high at dawn, they were crashing now.

Aimee spoke, mouth full, but covered with a hand, “This is good. Venison?”

He shook his head, swallowing, “Mystery meat. I bought a jar of scraps from a vendor. All the little cuts of rabbit, pig, deer, beef, chicken, you get it.”

“Goblin,” said Aimee.

McGrue laughed, breaking the tension a little. “No! It’s all animals, no…” Aimee pointed, he turned his head, and muttered, “Holy shit. A goblin.”

I strained to see what they were looking at. There was a little fellow trundling along, pushing a simple wooden wheelbarrow, “Is that a child?”

They both looked at me. Grimacing, McGrue shook his head, “C’mon, Gabbo. There’s no kids out here.”

“Why don’t we check it out?” I smiled, “Hm? I mean, we’re hunting a goblin king, right?

“Yes. Let’s,” he replied. “A child. Give me a break…”

There was still fog now in the early hours of the morning, but the child’s trail was simple to find. It looked as if kids had been making frequent trips up and down a well-worn path that went over the hills and dales rather than weaving between them. We’d walked perhaps a mile before we caught up. The poor lad was using a simple, short-handled shovel to fill his wheelbarrow.

If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

“This is awful,” I muttered, “Child labor. Who’s running this operation? Associates of the departed Jimmy Quick, no doubt.”

I got another glare for my trouble, then Aimee shielded her eyes, straining to look beyond what we now saw to be a dozen or more children, “Look. Beyond that hill. Isn’t that Bagatelle?”

Then McGrue and I did the same, “Yeah. We came back the other way, but instead of a shitty, rocky, pot-holed road, we took a footpath made smooth by goblin feet.”

“Come on,” I chuckled again, “Those are not goblins. Goblins are savages, slavering, they don’t even use tools! Obviously these are child slaves put to work by the foul lord Veineux.”

“That Orglespink you ate in the city fried your brain, Gar,” accused Aimee, “They’re a yellow-brown color and ohhh...” She looked slyly over at me then nodded to McGrue who gave stared flatly at her, the reason unclear.

“What are they loading into those wheelbarrows?” muttered McGrue, who then shoved us to the dirt, “Here comes one. Down!” he hissed.

We obliged, then watched the high-heaped barrow pass by and the poor boy forced to labor at such a young age. I sniffed, “Barley? Maybe a hint of sorghum?”

“I haven’t spent much time on this side of Fearal,” said Aimee, “But I think those fields just past the treeline, outside the wall, are farmland. All the space around Bagatelle is, except for the main entrances.”

“So they’re taking grain from the fields back to their king?” pondered McGrue. “Or … wait…”

We all watched as the sun rose high enough over the trees to finally shed light on the children in their labor. It became clear that the grain was not coming from the fields, but from what we thought were hills, “That’s a grain pile,” I exclaimed, “It’s massive…”

“Shhh!” hissed McGrue, covering my mouth. “C’mon, let’s get a closer look.”

We hustled, low to the ground, but were quickly made! “Make way, humans. Comin’ through.” Such an odd way to address us. We exchanged looks, then watched the child move by at a jogging pace, pushing his one-wheeled load. After that, we just started walking.

Approaching the first youngster, at the edge of the pile, I stepped forward to represent our group, “Hello, young man. Are you well?”

He didn’t look up, “What? Oh, yeah. Gotta get two more loads then I can have breakfast. Wheat cakes with corn syrup. Then ten more loads.”

“Terrible. Such a slavedriver. The lord, is he treating you well?”

“He hasn’t chopped my head off yet, so sure. If you want to trade, human, this isn’t the place and I’m not a trader,” he shovel swung madly, filling the wheelbarrow, and spraying me in the face with mixed grains.

I spit the various bits of dirty seed out out, “Yes, I see that you’re plying a trade. Look, I’m starting to suspect that The Grain Monger has dealings with this supposed Goblin King. I don’t suppose there’s any rumors going around the work camp about that, is there?”

“I guess. I mean, why else is all this here for the taking. The king must have some kind of deal.” He topped off his wheelbarrow, then started to push.

“Wait,” said McGrue, stepping in, “Where are you taking that?”

The boy whined, “Back to the village. Can I get by, please?”

“I don’t think so,” McGrue leaned down, “What king are you talking about?”

I grabbed him by the shoulder, “McGrue, come on. Leave the boy alone.”

This good constable/bad constable has gone on long enough. We have what we need from him,” said Aimee, glaring at the poor, defenseless child. She was giving me the oddest look.

“McGrue, You’re scaring the boy! He’s helpless,” I implored. McGrue just stared at me wide-eyed. “Aimee, talk to him!”

“He’s not a boy! You’re punchy from lack of sleep, Gabbo. It’s a damned goblin!” Angrily, he snatched the youth up, shaking him violently.

“Dammit, stop!” I pulled on the boy, “You can’t shake a child! Their oversized heads are too heavy!”

I found myself pulled all around in a tug-of-war with a man twice my size over a boy half my size, “Gabbo, you damned fool.” Snarling, the brute McGrue jerked the squalling baby around by the tip of his pointed hat, breaking the strap below his chin.

The poor youth squealed as his hat was ripped away, leaving his head and giant, pointy ears cold. I stared at the hat in my hands, “Oh…”

“Yeah, ‘oh’,” McGrue shook the sallow humanoid anew, “Now, goblin, what’s the name of your stupid king?”

“LePhisto! King LePhisto! Please, don’t hurt me!” The little guy kicked his feet, helplessly.

“How do you speak such good common?” I asked him.

“We trade with humans! There are traders at the warren all the time. Please, I’ll take you there, just–” McGrue twisted the goblin’s head like he was working a cork out of a wine bottle. With a snap the little guy was gone.

I couldn’t contain my anger, “Why did you do that!? He was answering our questions!”

He rolled his eyes, “Please, he was a goblin, Gabbo. They attack our cities and kill our people.”

“But he could have helped us. He wasn’t attacking anyone,” I looked down at the goblin. Why did I care? Joe had killed hundreds, maybe thousands of goblins, all in front of me. But this one talked, engaged like a person.

“Enough,” shouted McGrue. “Listen, goblins are like rats, okay?” The big half-orc flailed his arms, “They breed like mad, run out of food, raid, withdraw, cannibalize each other, then start the cycle over.”

At this moment I realized that several goblins had stopped working and were taking notice, “McGrue? Maybe calm down.”

“Calm down?” he caterwauled, “After the shit you put me through this morning? We’re nearly murdered by a small-time crook possessed by one of Joe’s epic-level enemies and you’re giving me trouble over a worthless, yellow-skinned, shit-covered midget of a goblin?”

More goblins emerged, “But they’re gathering.”

Turning, McGrue saw the amassing, potential horde, and scoffed, “Oh, look! Miniature humanoids. Y’know, I think I’ve seen some of you on top of temples, scaring away the birds. No, wait, they just shit on you. Get it?”

They did not seem to get it, and others emerged from holes, presumably the bottom of former piles, previously unseen. “Maybe make nice?” I asked, unsure of what else to say.

“Make nice? With creatures that are regularly skewered by level zero peasants using pitchforks? Why would I do that? Maybe I should apologize to cockroaches while I’m at it! Here, mister roach, please do have the rest of my sandwich. I’m not hungry anyway.”

Perhaps two dozen had stopped working and were staring us down now, “How many goblins do you think you can take?” I asked.

McGrue unslung his weapon with a flourish, “Oh yeah, my ax has this. Come get decapitated, you filthy animals!”

Double that crested the various piles. I took a step back, but Aimee squared up beside McGrue, “I hold the Black Baton of Ignus! My spells can cook fifty goblins!” She grabbed his free hand and they shared a moment of solidarity, smiling at one another.

But her words attracted a swarm from the trees all around the clearing, calling into question why they were hiding there in the first place. McGrue was the first to blink, “Ah, Gabbo? I don’t suppose your Air Guitar can take another hundred goblins?”

“No, it can not,” I replied, my voice much higher than normal, “Just back away slowly.”

Stepping forward, I used my gentlest tone, the “golden voice” that my professors always said I possessed. “Friends, I am so sorry for my uncouth friend. You see, we’ve slept little, and the city was terribly unkind to us. One of the horrible … adventurers, yes, one of them set upon us and nearly killed us as we attempted to escape. He also killed many guards. Such a savage.”

One particularly small goblin with sharpened teeth piped up, “But why’d you kill Steve?”

“That wasn’t me!” I snapped, “I mean, my friend did it by accident. But, oh, he was actually a spy from a clan of gnomes. Ptui! Gnomes! Disgusting creatures.”

There was a general muttering of assent from the assembled horde, “That makes sense. Yes, I like that,” said the little sharp-toothed one in particular.

Clearly, the goblins, who, again, spoke our language, liked what I had said as much as they disliked what McGrue had said. I’d evened the score, and started to back away from the, to this point, non-aggressive goblins. Unfortunately, it only takes one spark to start an inferno, and it only takes one malcontent to incite a mob. Running to the front of the crowd, knocking the little one aside, a grizzled, white-haired thing of a goblin pointed an aggressive finger at us, “Pluck their eyes for our sundaes!”

Instantly, I was fleeing from a roaring army of goblins, quickly catching up to my companions, “Run, dammit! Run!” We quickly were struggling to keep going and, every time I glanced back, they were still there. These little bastards had great stamina from pushing loads all day. How could we possibly out-distance them?.

“What did you say to them, Gabbo?” shouted McGrue.

“I talked them down but they had a Goblin McGrue who told them all to kill us!”

“Oh,” he nodded, “Okay, that makes sense.”

Soon we were beside the road, overlooking it, marveling at the nonsense of such a path. Nothing but ambush points from atop or behind these many hills. On multiple occasions we knocked goblins over who were returning to the grain pile, only to hear the mob trample their fellow to death behind us, “That scream was fainter,” I gasped, “I think we’re losing them.

Finally, we made it to our murder-horse, Grizzly, and the wrecked carriage, “Shit, I forgot! Aimee, take the reins. Gabbo, help me!” Frantically, we chucked Joe onto the floor of the carriage, then the wall and the roof on top of him, “Get on. Go. Go!”

As we began to roll it became clear that our weight was all that was keeping our conveyance together. Slowly, Grizzly found the road, but not fast enough! With a massive roar the horde was upon us!

They were actually unarmed, but as we butchered them with ax and sword, they did manage to bite us several times, scratch us with their nails, and they got their blood all over us. Truly traumatic. As Grizzly’s hooves pulled the carriage out of the soft ground, we started outpacing them, and the only other goblins who died after that were the several dozen who were trampled by the rest after falling during their efforts to catch us.

McGrue and I lay on the fallen roof, gasping for air, and I wondered aloud, “Did you hear the mad one talking about sundaes? I wonder what goblin ice cream tastes like. Probably terrible.”

“I don’t care, Gabbo,” he muttered in reply.

My head swam, “Fine. Fine. But do you think those goblins work for the goblin king? The one we’re looking for?”

He slapped the roof, “Oh by the gods, yes! They gave his name, dammit. Just go to sleep or something!”

Feeling drunk from lack of sleep I couldn’t help but laugh, “No. No, McGrue. I think I have an idea…”