“All is echo, life repeats,

Played out on our bitter stage,

All is conflict, we’re dead meat,

Clash of steel and fit of rage.”

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

I looked in front of us, and our warped reflection, three goblins, bent on our death, looked back. I looked behind, and the darkness of a blind alley, strewn with the little monsters’ special brand of filth, loomed. I looked down; Goblin McGrue still gripped my testicles. Not great. I looked to our own McGrue, “McGrue? A little help?”

The half-orc thug rolled his eyes, muttered “Fine,” then pulled me backwards, causing further groin pain but freeing me as I fell behind him to the dirt. “Look, nobody gets to injure Gabby’s gonads but me, okay? And, when I do it, I sure wouldn’t use my bare hand, you sick bastard.”

“What? Who cares,” asked Goblin McGrue, “It doesn’t matter. We’re gonna kill you anyway!”

Aimee leaned into our McGrue’s ear as I cupped my little fellas and staggered back up to my feet, “We really don’t want to be seen fighting in the street, McGrue.”

“I heard that,” growled Goblin McGrue, “He’s McGrue? So, what? You think he’s the bigger, better version of me? And another thing; why’s he the baseline! I’m definitely older!”

“Oh, I don’t think you–” began McGrue, but I stepped in, still hunched and covering my groin from further abuse.

“Right! Because we’re only five, born after the big famine,” I exclaimed, looking back at McGrue.

“Right,” he growled further.

“Oh, you stupid kids… Do you even know the goblin tongue? I don’t even want to know,” He slapped his wizard on the shoulder, “Merkin here can sacrifice a little power, create a Cone of Privacy, and we can settle this.”

“Cone of Privacy,” I asked.

He rolled his eyes, “A spell that makes us silent and invisible to the outside. Duh. Try to keep up.”

“Uh…” I looked at my companions, shocked by the offer, “Yes. Let’s go back here … where it’s private.”

Wordlessly, McGrue nodded, and we two started towards the dead end of the alley. Only Aimee was made uncomfortable by Goblin McGrue’s generosity, “Gar? I don’t trust this. What are you thinking?” she whispered to me.

“I’m thinking they’re goblins and we can’t afford to bring the horde down on our heads. Don’t worry, it’s just three-on-three. Trust me,” I retorted.

“Okay…” she got between McGrue and I as we walked in a straight line towards the back before spreading out.

Our twisted goblin doppelgangers arrayed before us, each facing his class-twin, “Okay Merkin, make with the Cone of Privacy.

“You got it, Muggzy,” said Merkin, intoning some arcane nonsense, perhaps in the goblin language, and swirling magic into an expanding column of dullness that diffused the light in the area.

“Muggzy,” asked McGrue, “Your name is Muggzy?”

Muggzy scoffed, “Yeah, ‘McGrue,’ because that’s normal. Muggzy Trufflesnatch the fifth. It’s a traditional name. Stupid kid…”

“Ooga-booga, chow-chow,” exclaimed the goblin bard, my double, though how these goblins thought we looked alike I’d never know. He wore a purple and green striped jester’s jumpsuit, a five-pointed hat and, instead of bells, they were festooned with rotting crab apples.

“What … is that goblin he’s speaking,” I asked, confused.

“No. How?” sputtered Muggzy, who we called Goblin McGrue, “Chinky only speaks gibberish. I think it’s stupid, but LePhisto always laughs, so we keep him around.”

“Heh. It is a little funny,” muttered McGrue as he watched the goblin fool dance about.

“Of course you’d think it was funny,” muttered Muggzy, rolling his one good eye. With a strange hum, the dull cone took form over us, muting all color and canceling every echo from every spoken word.

“I’m only five years old,” shouted McGrue.

“All done,” said Merkin, “We are go for rumble.”

“Oh, good,” grunted McGrue, ripping Merkin’s hat off, shoving it in the goblin’s mouth, cramming him bodily in a half-full trash can, crushing the lid down on top of him and collapsing a pile of trash bags down on top of the can.

“Cheating shit,” cried Muggzy, tackling McGrue to the dirt.

“Ah, well,” I muttered, looking down at little walleyed Chinky, “You don’t really want to fight me, do you, little guy?”

“Epstein didn’t kill himself,” mumbled Chinky, cocking his head like an owl, then smiling with a mouth of what looked like shark teeth.

I looked back at Aimee, who wove magic before her using the Black Baton of Ignus, “Did you understand that?”

“Understand what,” she asked, igniting the air.

“He said, whoa! No! What are–ow!” The little bastard had untucked both my jerkin and tabard before pulling himself in, under my clothing, “Your nails are–no biting!”

“Man, I love fighting guys smaller than me,” shouted McGrue, turning Muggzy upside down and falling to drop him headfirst on the dirt. After, he lay on his back, laughing, as Muggzy clutched his neck, cursing. First he sighed, satisfied, then he flinched, “Shit! Guys! Look!” He pointed up.

I had just managed to pin Chinky to my chest, both of our heads sticking out the neck-hole of my clothing. We looked up, and saw, looking down, about ten dark-clothed goblins wielding gleaming daggers. They dropped down, trailing ropes from the surrounding walls, and surrounded us. One pointed his knife at us, “See? I told ya. We couldn’t see or hear from the outside, but they’re in here, just like the boss said.”

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“Kill! Kill these bastards,” growled Muggzy, struggling to rise while holding his head with one hand.

McGrue tried to scramble up, but five of the goblin assassins dove on him, sinking their steel deep into his meat, “Gah! Cursed things! Bring it on, I’ll gut ya!”

Two grinned as they cornered Aimee, who billowed flame at them in cascading waves, but this only kept them at bay, laughing all the while.

Then there was me. The final three goblins lunged, sinking their steel deep into my jerkin, through my tabard, and deep in the meat on my chest. That meat being Chinky, their fellow goblin, “Back, for a limited time!” he shouted, his blood spraying as I staggered away from the assassins.

Drawing my rapier, I raked the point across the cheek of one would-be assassin, and he staggered away. One lost his dagger, gruesomely, in Chinky’s left eye. The third I kicked squarely in the face, sending him into Muggzy, who roared as they both fell again, “We need to end this,” I shouted.

“Working on it,” called Aimee, immolating a goblin, who staggered into the wet garbage pile under which struggled Merkin the goblin wizard.

McGrue found his feet, grabbing two goblins by the neck, then crushing their heads together, “Cursed creatures!” The other three scattered, licking his blood from their blades, and he finally managed to get his ax out.

They stared up at him in seeming shock, “Not … not real?” The goblin assassins exchanged looks, then got back on their heels.

I saw what they saw, “McGrue! Your disguise!”

Reaching up, McGrue realized that nearly all the green, caked mud had dried and was flaking off from his fight, and his parchment and mud ears were completely gone, “Shit…”

“Aimee,” I screamed as they bolted past me.

Get down!” And without thinking, Aimee cut loose, blasting out a gout of flame that engulfed the remaining goblin assassins and McGrue. I fell, holding the bleeding near-corpse named Chinky in front of me. He screamed.

“Chinky,” I cried, pulling his now limp form from my jerkin. The rotted fruit and all his cloth was burned away along with much of my own clothing, though my leathers, being magically enchanted, survived with seemingly no ill affect.

“Dammit woman,” cried McGrue, rolling in the dirt to put out the fire, “Why am I the punching bag?”

“Sorry, I tried to warn you,” called Aimee, looking around at the carnage she’d wrought. “Oh, uh, Sargon?”

Crawling away in a panic, Muggzy rolled to his back as McGrue approached him from behind, “You’re no goblin! You’re a spy,” he looked past McGrue to see that the flames dried out Aimee’s disguise, then at me, seeing my own green face crumbling, “You’re all spies!”

“Yeah, yeah…” Muggzy fell to his back, hands up, screaming, and McGrue just stomped his face repeatedly until his corpse stopped twitching, which was several stomps after he had no head left.

“Was … was I a good dog,” asked poor Chinky, slain by his allies.

“What,” I asked, “You’re not a dog at all.”

He ignored this entirely as I laid him down on the dirt of the alley, “But was I a good one?”

I cleared my throat, befuddled, but unwilling to deny the deluded little bastard what seemed to be a final request, “Sure. Yes. Yes, you were a good … dog, Chinky.”

He coughed up blood, “Then pet me. Pet me like no dog’s ever been pet before…”

“Oh … okay…” I pat his head.

He pushed my hand away, “No. I mean with your foot…” I complied, and he said “Wimmy wam wam wozzle,” then died with a rattle as the light left his eyes.

“Well, some of that was words,” I muttered, pushing the psychotic, stabbed, burned little goblin jester’s eyes shut before rising to my feet, “Shit. What now? We’re in the middle of more goblins than have ever existed in one place and our disguises are destroyed.”

Almost as if on cue the garbage pile settled, spreading burning filth around, and with a gasp the goblin wizard Merkin rolled out of his buried trash can prison. “Now,” he coughed, “Now you’ve done it.” Getting up, dusting himself off, he coughed again, and his soaked wizard’s hat shot out. Looking around, he saw both Chinky and Muggzy dead on the dirt, “Whoa now. We have ten … assassins…” He saw the scorched and crushed assassin corpses, “Wait. Let’s make a deal.”

“Okay,” I said to the little fellow, then, “Aimee, I don’t know if you’re familiar with the Cone of Privacy, but you know magic. So long as he keeps concentrating on it, can it be moved?”

Both she and McGrue were busily robbing the corpses strewn about like true adventurers do, “I said I’m sorry. There are healing potions in the carriage.”

“Aimee,” I said, louder this time, trying to keep up an air of menace to manipulate the goblin wizard.

“Hm? Oh, yes. With the Black Baton I can move a stationary spell. We will need to take him with us…”

“Aha. Well, that does sound like we can make a deal. How’s volunteering to be our hostage sound as a deal? Merkin, was it?”

He blew a raspberry, rubbing his face, “Yes, sir, mister fake goblin, sir. I’m your hostage.”

I touched the tip of my rapier to his breast, just over his heart, “Great! Well, we’ll need you to lead us to the nearest, simplest way out of the goblin village, please.”

“LePhisto calls it the Gobtropolis but… Okay, I can do that. And then you’ll let me go, right?” He held out his palms, pleadingly.

“What? No,” howled McGrue.

“Oh, grow up, McGrue,” I shook my head.

“You grow up! I’m full of holes and my hair’s burned off!” He continued barking at me.

But I was engaging with Merkin, “We’ll let you go, but you can’t go home. Go to Bagatelle. It’s an integrated city. I know they let goblins roam. You know, so long as you don’t horde up and such.”

He rubbed his chin, “Well … what if I go home anyway? What’s stopping me?”

I twirled my blade to intimidate, “Well, when Sir Joe the Bold sacks your city–”

“Message received!” he interjected, “Let’s go! Time’s a-wasting!”

“That was easy,” I muttered. We departed.

—

An abandoned building near the wall had a basement with a tunnel dug to the outside wall where Merkin led us outside, the Cone of Privacy with us all the way. “There. You’re outside. Now we part company, right?”

“Not quite,” I waved him on, “Now you follow us to our carriage and we watch you head back up towards Bagatelle.”

I led the way, he followed, and both Aimee and McGrue grumbled to one another. Merkin’s breathing became erratic and, after about half a mile, he burst into tears, “Just kill me already!”

McGrue laughed out loud, “Well all right!”

“No,” I cried, heading McGrue off at the pass, “We’re not killing you, Merkin.”

“But we’re going to a second location,” he whined, “That always means death. It’s a running gag back at Gobtropolis going back to the cousin-eating days.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, “We’re just using your spell to make sure we make it back without being attacked.”

“Really,” he asked, hopefully.

“Yes, really,” I said, pushing McGrue back by his chest and getting a finger stuck momentarily in a dagger hole. I wiped my hand in the grass.

Ultimately, we made it back, and Merkin skipped up the road towards Bagatelle. McGrue looked at me annoyed as Aimee rubbed healing potion into his dagger holes, “Why, Gabbo? Why do you keep trying to not kill goblins?”

I checked in on Joe, finding the bastard corpse right where we left him, in dire need of mending but mostly dried now, “I don’t know how to make it clear to you, McGrue, but killing isn't always the answer. I mean, maybe it is if you’re nearly invincible and mostly evil like Joe was in life, but he might become a valuable ally some day down the road.”

“You mean up the road,” asked McGrue.

“What? No. I mean in the future,” I replied, confused.

He nodded, “Oh. Well, when someone’s walking away from you on a road I always thought that was up–”

I blinked, “Right, but I’m talking about time, not direction.”

“Yeah, I got that now,” he shrugged.

“In the future,”

“Right, later on,” he made a round gesture, “But what about now?

“Now,” I asked, “Well, now we know where LePhisto is. Now, I think it’s time to animate a corpse and storm a goblin palace. Wouldn’t you agree?”