《Dot & Gob - A 'Hoarfrost Heroes' Novella》


 1. Bump in the Night

    1. Bump in the Night


    Dorothy woke from her favourite dream. The one where she was still young, and Gordon was with her. Though back then she thought they were both terribly old.


    She rubbed tiredly at her eyes, and pulled the heavy woolen blankets over her shoulder. The fabric was rough and scratchy, but nights alone in the Midderlands were cold. And even on a mild summer day like this, she''d be shivering without a few extra layers.


    She wondered idly why she''d woken up to begin with, drifting back to sleep, when the faintest scratching set her eyes snapping open.


    Turning so she could listen out with her better ear, she strained to hear any noises but there was naught but a soft breeze and the creaking walls of her old home. In amidst the now steady thumping of her heart.


    Long moments passed, her elbow and neck aching under her own propped weight, as she waited and waited, hoping all the while to hear nothing at all.


    By the faint silver light, leaking through the tattered curtain of the nearby window shutters, it must have been a full moon.


    That meant goblins, and worse monsters, would be roaming much farther than they otherwise might.


    Satisfied she was just imagining things, as she had many times before, Dorothy decided to lay back down. But her bladder started complaining, so she staggered up and out of the bed instead.


    She paused at a hook near the door, where rested a heavy iron pan that she''d never used for cooking. Admonishing herself for being so afraid over a little noise, she let the pan be, and headed towards the kitchen.


    Most folk kept their piss pots in their bedroom, but Dorothy had never liked the idea of using it in front of her husband. Ten winters might have passed since he''d left the waking life, but after seventy winters all of her habits were now long set. Along with all her aches and pains. Though new complaints were often to show up like as not.


    Her son had told her, after Gordon died, that she ought to move to Vendrick or Timilir or somewhere safer. But Robert had never much liked the idea of them staying in the Midderlands when they were both among the living either.


    Not that the boy had any problems growing up here, but once he''d left for Vendrick his ideas has changed. He decided he''d been raised in a very dangerous place indeed.


    But by Dorothy''s reckoning she was much more likely to be robbed in a city than she was to be savaged by monsters. To her mind, all the talk of the Midderlands being infested by goblins was just another excuse he wielded to avoid coming to see his mother. She''d not seen him since he settled down with that singer and her belly swelled.


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    Dorothy made a sour face, remembering that their boy had not even come to watch his father burn on the pyre. He''d just sent a messenger with a little letter. Words so indistinct they could have been scrawled by any stranger.


    She shivered, finding herself suddenly cold and suddenly sorrowed, as she hiked up her garments.


    Dorothy wiped an idle tear from her eye and smiled defiantly to herself. She had lived a good life. A long life. Spent more winters than she deserved with a loving husband, though of course she would have happily lived a score more. Maybe she wouldn''t see her boy before she died, but that was all right.


    She''d always wanted a girl, as well, but after the first child, they''d met with misfortune after misfortune. And even for a hard woman those losses hit very hard indeed.


    But they''d loved their boy. And fed him. And kept a roof over his head. And no marauding clan of goblins had come and snatched him or his parents away in all the winters they''d lived here.


    Dorothy headed back to bed, keen to return under the warmth of scratchy covers, her bones creaking along with the floorboards each step of the way.


    Pausing in the hallway, she stared despite the dark and despite her old eyes, at the small wooden plate that hung in the corridor. It wasn''t art most folk might say, but it was one of her favourite things. An etching of her and Gordon, back when her husband stood straight and broad and back when her hair was deep black and fell past her shoulders.


    She could barely see her eyes or features, but she could still remember that afternoon as if it was the morning before. Standing beside her husband, smiling despite sweat stinging her eyes, while the whole village lined up under a wicked sun to get their portraits made by a travelling artist.


    Waste of coin and time, she''d thought back then. But now it was only one of two ways she could see her husband''s face. The other sketch was only the size of a hand that she kept by her bed.


    She''d marvelled at the details and fine lines of that one, but as she got older the picture got less and less distinct. Though that was the way of most things.


    "I''ve lived a good life," Dorothy whispered to herself, almost in reassurance. "I''ve lived a good life," she repeated with more vigor. "I''ve--"


    A gargling scream.


    "Stop!" a childish voice distantly pleaded. "Stop! Stop! Leave be me!"


    Deeper mocking laughter and garbled words answered the pleas.


    Dorothy''s blood turned cold. By the high pitch and broken language, they were goblins. By the sound rising louder, they were heading straight towards her home.


    Her heart began to thump so heavy that she feared it might give out.


    She took a final look at her husband, seeing him both vividly in memory and barely in the darkness. ''Keep our heads down,'' he''d say.


    But Dorothy had lived a good life. She''d lived a long life. So she reached out for the cold handle of the heavy iron pan.

 2. Courage

    2. Courage


    "Help! Help! Help!" came the shrill cries, now claws scrabbled against Dorothy''s door. She stood in her night gown, arthritic hands wrapped tight around the pan''s handle, as each desperate rap of the wood slowly ebbed at her courage.


    "Help! Help!" voices echoed in mockery. "Help, manling! Help!"


    Dorothy could only guess that the bigger goblins, with their deeper voices, had chased and cornered the weaker one. Likely intent on eating him.


    She realized if she did keep her head down, that she''d likely be fine. They weren''t here to hunt humans, or manlings as they called them, they were just trying to feed on each other.


    She sighed in sheer relief, but still found herself stepping forward.


    The young goblin had begun to make a whimpering sound that reminded her of her boy when he was young. "Help, help," he begged far more feebly and with far less hope. "Pleasing. Help."


    No doubt he''d meant to say please. They liked to mimic the phrase of men but often got the sounds or order wrong.


    With great effort, unable to let go of her heavy pan, Dorothy stepped forward to shoulder the wooden bar up and off of the door. The length clonked down onto the floorboards.


    "Help, help?" the fleeing goblin ventured more hopefully.


    The other goblins grunted disagreeably and suspiciously among one another.


    Dorothy opened the door just a crack, knowing well enough the goblins could see just fine by night. And far, far better than a tired old woman with bad eyes. "Leave ''im be," she tried to growl with all the force and threat she could muster. But her words stumbled and they came out at an awkward choke. She coughed to clear her throat. "Leave ''im be!" she repeated.


    "Leave, leave!" the fleeing goblin eagerly agreed.


    "Who you?" a deeper, strangled voice asked. "Out step, manling."


    "Get gone out my land, goblin," Dorothy demanded. "''Fore I crack open yer skull."


    "Hm."


    "Hm," the other goblins agreed in an eerie chorus.


    "Is womanling?" one ventured as if amused.


    "Old womanling," another agreed.


    "Trickery!" a third announced.


    "Out step, womanling!" the deeper voice repeated. "Or we crack your skull."


    Dorothy swallowed, and her throat was painfully dry. The little goblin by the door, barely taller than her hips, was trying to nudge through the gap. She had to keep her breath as steady as she could as her heart was beginning a hectic rhythm and she was worried she was going to faint. "Fine," she suddenly growled, swinging open the door.


    Below, half a dozen figures, skin from dark green to night black-bodies hunched and wiry and bony as if they and Dorothy were of an age-stood arrayed in a half circle, below the three-step stair that led up to her home.


    The biggest among them had a square head and broad shoulders and stood almost as tall as she did. The rest ranged as tall as her shoulders or her torso.


    But she''d heard that goblins were stronger than they looked. And they all looked more than strong enough to beat a doddery old woman to death on their own.


    Never mind six against one.


    The goblins looked up at her as if they were afraid, or confused, and then they each and all began to raucously laugh.


    Howling and jeering and cackling.


    "Get gone," Dorothy said again, too softly to be heard. "Get gone!" she shouted, quieting their mirth. "''Fore I call for help."


    "Help?" the bulky goblin asked in amusement. "You are... no clan. I smell no help. But you... no honor, too. I let you live, womanling. Be happy for this."


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    "I--" Dorothy began, not really even sure what she might say, when the small goblin on the stairs suddenly leapt over the railing and set off running in a blind panic.


    One of the other goblins hurled a rock, which crunched into the target''s shoulder, sending his small frame into the side of the house before he went sprawling into the grass.


    The thrower yelped with excitement, quite proud of himself, and the others all began to laugh once more.


    In the excitement, while they all rushed forward to kick and scratch and jeer at their smaller kin, Dorothy was forgotten. Loud as they were, while the hunted goblin squealed, they didn''t hear her creaking descent of the steps.


    It was only when she swung her whole weight behind a desperate swing of her pan--the iron resounding out with such a resonant clang that the handle vibrated from her hands--that they all turned to notice Dorothy.


    The bulky goblin, who she had struck soundly on the back of his skull, turned as if he were more confused than injured. "Oh. Honor you have, womanling. Courage! I accept your challenge!" he declared excitedly.


    Dorothy bent, back aching in answer, and desperately scrabbled for the pan in the grass.


    A kick to the jaw robbed her of her senses and vision, mind only roused back to the waking life when she crunched through the wooden railing behind her.


    "Bad fight," the bulky goblin unhappily announced. "But still courage," he offered as commisseration.


    He now hefted the pan in one hand, switching the grip to two handed, before he lifted it up as if to bring it down like a wood-cutter''s axe.


    Dorothy tried to paw back despite knowing it was hopeless, and her hand closed on a broken piece of railing.


    The pan arced down. The wood lanced up. The bulky goblin paused mid swing, confused for a moment, before he saw the jagged end of the railing jutting from his stomach.


    "Hm," he groaned, the pan slipping from grip and clonking against the grass. "Good fight, womanling," he decided. He was about to wrench the wood free when Dorothy''s hands snaked out for the pan.


    The goblin stomped down, crushing her left wrist under heel, while she snatched out for the impaled railing with her right.


    Using all the strength she had left in her legs, Dorothy launched herself forward, twisting and driving the wood deeper now the pair of them lost balance and tumbled down onto the unforgiving earth.


    Disorientated for a moment, the bulky goblin''s dark eyes widened and he looked up at her for the first time with rage and fear.


    The rock that had been thrown at the fleeing goblin was close enough at hand for Dorothy to grab.


    The goblin reached for her throat, but she answered with a bludgeoning blow to the head.


    He snarled, clamping down on her neck, but she swung again. Strength failing, she tried for a third then a fourth time, but the stone was slick with blood and it slipped from grip.


    She feared that she''d now be choked but realized the goblin''s hand had since gone limp and that he lay dead and bleeding beneath her instead. The squared skull cracked badly open.


    "Oh," the now tallest goblin announced. "Womanling wins."


    "Womanling wins," another whispered in bemusement.


    "Womanling. Winner!" a third declared in amazement.


    The taller goblin bared grimy fangs at Dorothy. "We go now, Womanling," he explained almost kindly, leaning down to take the hunted goblin with them.


    "Leave ''im," Dorothy found herself saying. She struggled to her feet. "He''s mine."


    "Oh?" the goblin asked, turning back. "You is make clan, Womanling?" he reasoned.


    She picked up the heavy iron pan, holding it ahead of her. "I might."


    "Oh!" he replied, as if surprised but not displeased. "I will tell of this."


    "Yes," another goblin agreed. "Very telling!"


    "Yes," said a third, though the confused look upon his bony face suggested he had no clue what was happening.


    "We take?" asked the taller goblin, pointing to the corpse before her. "I think. Fair. Yes?"


    "Yes," Dorothy conceded.


    "Kindness," said the goblin happily. "I am remembering."


    "Be gone, then," she demanded, waving them away with the pan.


    "Gone we go," he agreed, watching her for a long moment as if he might have violence in mind before scampering off and leaving the other to drag the body of their dead friend with them.


    They howled and shouted and jeered distantly when they disappeared into the surround of shadowed trees.


    Dorothy blinked. Her hand began to throb incessantly, and then she had a vicious urge to vomit.


    Her stomach empty not long after, she wiped sick from her split lip, and wandered over to the fallen goblin.


    A nasty gash marred his brow, but he was still muttering fearfully in a fitful sleep.


    Dorothy weighed the pan in her hands, growing ever heavier, and pursed her lips in dissatisfaction.


    She''d spent most of her life cooking and cleaning for her husband. But there was a time, in her very early years, when she''d worked for a seamstress.


    Like as not, she might be able stitch up the goblin''s head. She glanced at the pan once more, before eventually turning towards the broken steps to fetch some thread.

 3. Mended

    3. Mended


    Dorothy''s sigh shuddered out of her frail frame amidst a great weight of regretful exhaustion.


    Whatever hurt she''d been spared in the heat of a battle, was now blooming four fold around every muscle and every bone.


    She sat with her back to a kitchen cupboard, raggedly breathing while pain wrapped around her like a blanket. Great pulsating waves that started one place and began in another before the first had even ended.


    She hadn''t felt this sort of agony since giving birth, and that was now a distant memory. One she looked at more like a witness to another much younger woman''s past instead of her own.


    Her wrist was the only constant, which burned as if some cruel blacksmith had forged hot iron around her forearm.


    The scrawny goblin lay opposite her, sprawled amid the dusty floorboards of her kitchen, half cloaked in shadows and half revealed by the weak light of the now rising dawn sun.


    She''d managed to stitch the gash on his head. But by the looks of the poor thing, it hadn''t done him any good. He''d stopped murmuring and now lay still and silent.


    Probably for the best, of course. Else he might have decided, now he was rid of his own hunters, that a battered and exhausted old woman might make for a likely meal.


    Dorothy couldn''t reckon why it was she''d got herself involved to begin with. All these winters she''d played life safe, and now here she was risking her neck for a monster.


    She''d been one wrong step away from being eaten alive. And even as things went, the goblins had said they''d tell of what happened here. Would that bring even more unwanted visitors to her door?


    Maybe she really would be safer in a city. The grocer''s boy would be here in a day or two, and she could travel back with him. Get clear of all this and thank Joyto the Trickster that she''d managed to come clear of a grizzly death.


    Worst part of it wouldn''t even be the dying, but her son hearing the news. ''Told you it was dangerous,'' he''d say. ''The Midderland''s no place for an old woman alone. Tried to warn her.''


    No doubt he''d have some choice words if his mother did seek him out. But then Dorothy could survive a bit of an embarassment.


    She doubted she''d live much longer with more goblins darkening her door. She''d leave out this sorry business altogether. Tell him she was getting lonely on her own. He wouldn''t even believe her if she told him the truth.


    "Hardly believe it meself," she muttered aloud. Her words were slurred and her eyes were sore and leaden. She wondered, idly, if this might be a strange dream. And then drifted off to sleep.


    ***


    Dorothy woke to a startling clatter. Pots, and pans, and knives rattling all together or clattering across the kitchen. Then momentary confusion gave way to a flood of aches and pain. Trying to voice her distress, her lips moved but her jaw throbbed with a frightening soreness that kept her silent.


    She squinted in defense of bright sunlight lancing in from the nearby window, able to make out the hunched green figure of a goblin.


    Sudden panic gave way to regretful understanding. The little monster hadn''t broken into her home, she''d carried him in the night before.


    "Oi," she quietly managed, despite her swollen face. "Oi," she tried less feebly, but couldn''t be heard.


    The goblin carried on rooting through her things, grabbing and sniffing and biting, throwing away whatever he couldn''t easily chew.


    Dorothy grabbed the nearby handle of a cupboard, pulling it out and then slamming it closed.


    The goblin leapt around, small claws up and out like a scared cat, but the grubby green visage soon curled up into a smirk. "Oh! You wake!"


    Dorothy stared for a long moment, trying to sort through her thoughts amid an agony that seemed to ebb and flow. "I am."


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    "You is," the goblin agreed. His hairless brow raised as if in intrigue or excitement. "What do now?"


    "Well--" She began, twisting her mouth and changing her tone to lessen the pain of her jaw. "You can stop making a racket."


    "Rat it?"


    "Racket."


    "Whack it? What I whack?"


    "Noise."


    "I whack noise?" he asked disbelieving. "Can not be! Or can?" he second guessed, almost nervously. "I can...?" he repeated, now hopefully.


    Dorothy made a disagreeble murmur. Her head began to throb amid a persistent hissing sound. "Go home."


    "Home...?" he repeated. "Clan home. Is home. Yes?"


    "Yes. Go back to clan."


    The goblin cocked his head. "I am home. Clan. This--" He stomped down. "Clan home! Yes. Yes? Yes...?"


    ''Gods above,'' Dorothy thought to herself. ''What have I done?''


    She tried to push up from the floor, but pain shot up her back and her wrist could barely bear any weight at all. Staggering, she almost collapsed but the goblin leapt forward, anchoring her weight on his shoulders, stopping her fall.


    "Careful," he reprimanded, helping her to her feet. "Not good fall. Hurting. Yes? Yes!"


    Shifting her balance onto the countertop behind her, she frowned down at the goblin in confusion.


    Much stronger than he looked, he barely stood as tall as her bust. Which wasn''t saying much as scores of winter had dragged them down, bending her back for good measure.


    "Go... back," she decided. "To goblins. Your kind. Goblin," she repeated. "Back you go."


    "Back?" His eyes, wild and yellow like a feral cat, widened. "No, no. I not back. They want eat. Me! I not want eat. We are back now. This is... here. Yes? No," he decided. "Us," he seized. "Us clan!"


    Dorothy''s senses were slowly coming back to her, reminding her of a terrible thirst and the sudden surety that her bladder might burst. "I''m no goblin," she answered.


    "No," he happily agreed. "Womanling. I goblin... ling. Goblinling. Gob... lin. Gob--"


    "Shush."


    "Shush?" he echoed.


    "Quiet."


    "Oh. Yes, I--" Then he pressed his lips tight together and looked up at her in expectation.


    "We are not the same."


    The goblin''s eyes narrowed as if he were unsure whether or not he should speak.


    "You go," Dorothy then demanded as forcefully as she could. "Leave."


    The goblin glanced over to the door, which rattled in the wind. "Go hunt?"


    Dorothy groaned without patience, unsure of any other way short of killing the goblin to get rid of him. "Go on, then. Go hunt."


    "Hunt what?" he asked.


    She thought quite hard about the answer, considering a wolf but decided that was too liable to get the foolish goblin killed. "Hunt an owl."


    "Owwweeell?"


    "Hoot hoot," she mimicked.


    "Oh!" He bared his fanged teeth in a grimy smile. "I hunt hooting. Yes. Do this!"


    The goblin excitedly scampered off through the door, and leapt down the broken stairs. He had cleared the grassy clearing around the home and was crossing by the tall trees of the distant forest by the time Dorothy staggered over to close the way after him.


    She made sure to block the doorway with the length of wood. She doubted he could catch an owl, and if he did she was fairly certain he''d rather eat the poor bird than drag it back with him.


    Dorothy then set about her morning rituals, grateful when she''d emptied her bladder and had some water and food in her belly.


    She reprimanded herself more than once for getting involved with a pack of goblins. And couldn''t even decide whether or not she''d done a good deed. Like as not that goblin would go on to kill and eat whatever it possibly could.


    Washed and dressed, she sat on a stool in the kitchen facing the barred door, waiting to see if the goblin would come scampering back to her.


    Her good hand wrapped tight around the iron pan, and her other hand wrapped in an untidy bandage, she decided to rest her eyes. Time drifted back and forth between quick and slow until the bright noon day had given way to a dreary dusk.


    She wearily sighed, about to get herself back to bed and forget this sorry business, when a polite knocking sounded out against her door.

 4. Fetch

    4. Fetch


    "Mam...?" came the less than confident question from beyond the door. "It''s Young Gil. From the Grocer. Is everything all right? I saw some blood--"


    "Come in," Dorothy called, too bruised and tired to push up out of her seat in the kitchen. "Everything''s good and well."


    The lanky young man stepped gingerly through the door. He had a head of scruffy red hair, and a lean freckled face. He was a handsome enough lad, but he carried himself like a timid mouse. Dorothy always thought that strange, since bringing food and supplies out to remote places could be dangerous work. But she was grateful he didn''t mind the risk or the long trek, because it had been a few winters since she''d had the strength to march to the Grocer and back.


    "You''re early," Dorothy said.


    "No." He slightly shook his head. "I always come the same day just like I''ve told you before."


    Dorothy scowled but had no mind to argue. She watched as he set down a large pack on the ground, taking out a lantern which he diligently set alight. Young Gil looked up at her with a satisfied smile that soon dropped to open-mouthed horror. "What''s happened?" he worriedly asked. "Gods above, you''re hurt bad!"


    "I''m fine," she dismissed. "Goblins was all. I seen to ''em."


    Young Gil frowned. "You''ve seen to them?"


    "Aye," she answered. "Bashed a big one''s head in with a rock and the rest of ''em scampered."


    "Oh... right. Well, we best get you back to the village. Have you mended. If you can walk, I mean."


    "''Course I can walk," Dorothy grumbled. "''nd I''m fine. I''ll heal on me own. How much do I owe ya?"


    The lanky lad was shaking his head. "Wouldn''t feel right leaving you out here on your own like this."


    "Lucky for you, you''ve no choice in the matter then," she countered. Seeing he was still unconvinced, she added, "Hardly be good for me to be dragged for miles, would it?"


    "Doesn''t feel right," he mumbled to himself. "Wait," he then said. "What if I send Moira to come and look in on you? She knows all sorts about herbs and healing."


    "Fine," Dorothy said, knowing full well that Moira hated her and she wouldn''t agree to the journey to begin with. Or maybe she would. All seemed so important back then, but it had been so long since maybe it didn''t matter at all. Moira''s husband had convinced himself that there was some unspoken bond between him and Dorothy, which she wasn''t at all aware of.


    Now, of course, Gordon and Eustace were both long dead. Dorothy couldn''t be sure whether petty jealousy outstretched the grave.


    Gordon might have killed him sooner, but Dorothy was quicker to act and she only stabbed him in his hip.


    That was why it was always handy to carry a knife. A lesson she''d forgotten, she realized. A blade would''ve helped the night before.


    "Dorothy?" Young Gil asked. Not for the first time by his worried tone and the questioning look in his lambent eyes. "You hear me?"


    "''Course."


    "So no charge?" he asked, lifting his lantern aloft to study her.


    "''Course there''s a charge," Dorothy answered. "How much do I owe?"


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    "Like I just said," Young Gil replied, "there''s no charge because this is the last time we can come out here. Getting too dangerous. Kara''s soon to pop, and I can''t risk my life with a babe on the way. There''s a new chief about as well. Bringing all the goblins together. Robbing folk, if they''re lucky. Eating folk, if they ain''t. Why don''t you come back with me and you can stay with us for a while? Ed''s just died of the cold and his place will be going for a few silver at best. You''ll have folk around you, and won''t have to worry yourself about scrapping with goblins."


    "This is my home," was all she said in answer.


    "I know that. But--"


    "No buts about it," Dorothy cut in. "I''m awful sore and awful tired. Goblins ain''t moving me and you ain''t neither. Best you save your breath."


    Young Gil sighed, his lips twisting in displeasure.


    "You can send for Moira," she said to placate him. "Goblin''s are gone. I''ll heal on me own, I promise ya. You worry about your young''un. I''ve had all the winters I need."


    The lanky lad reluctantly nodded, and started taking things from his sack and placing them in the cupboards and shelves as Dorothy would have wanted. He must have had a remarkable memory, considering she''d only told him the once where things went. When he was finished, he closed all the cupboards and draws, tidying away the pots and pans that the goblin had scattered around, and eventually brushed his hands together as if he were done with his labours. Young Gil looked at her, his young face plainly worried, and made a disagreeable murmur.


    "I said stop worrying," Dorothy chided.


    "What will you do for food?"


    "I''ve got food," she reminded, looking pointedly around the kitchen to remind him of what he''d just delivered.


    "You know what I mean," he argued.


    "Maybe I do," she admitted. "Might be I''ll change me mind once I start to starve. Either ways, you got worries enough of your own."


    "True." Young Gil offered a heart-hearted smile. "I''ll come see you soon. Just to stop by, check--"


    "No. You''ll stay home," Dorothy gently instructed. "Safe with your woman and babe."


    "Right you are," he conceded. "There anything else you need?" he asked, glancing towards the door.


    "Sleep," Dorothy answered.


    "Right you are," he said again with a worried smile. "Hope to see you in town soon, then. I''ll send Moira when I see her."


    Dorothy made a vague noise of assent. "Go careful," she added as she was leaving. She''d never much taken to most folk. Even less so as she''d gotten older, but she had to admit that Young Gil had always been unduly kind and terribly patient with her despite her short temper. "Ilma the Midwife watch over you and your family."


    Young Gil''s face lit up as he looked back at her. "Thank you, Dorothy. "


    "Don''t be too familiar," she mocked.


    He laughed, almost as if surprised or relieved.


    Dorothy realized this was likely the only time she''d been kind to him. "You''re a good lad," she then said. "You''ll be a good da'' too."


    Young Gil nodded then, his expression turning very stern and serious. "You sure you don''t want to come with me? I''ll go slow."


    "Quite sure," Dorothy said, struggling up to see him off at the door and to bar it behind him. "Off you go now, Young Gil."


    The lanky lad nodded, sighed, and descended the three-step stair. "Go careful down these steps."


    "I--"


    Scrabbling against wood preceded clattering shutters and a great crash. Dorothy turned back to see the scrawny goblin on all fours amid the kitchen, a ravaged owl pinned in his bloody fangs.


    The goblin shouted, seemingly in excitement, but the words were muffled and senseless.


    "What was that?" Young Gil asked, holding up his lantern at the bottom of the stairs. "Everything all right?"


    Dorothy found herself smiling in reassurance. She didn''t want Young Gil or the goblin getting hurt. She''d find some other way to get peacefully rid of the little monster. "Fine."


    "I heard--"


    "Broom fell over," she cut in. "Off you go."


    "I think--"


    Dorothy slammed shut the door, eclipsing the confused look on his freckled face. "Be quiet," she growled at the goblin, hoping he would heed the command as well as before. Then she hefted up the length of wood to bar the way. When she turned to face the goblin, his mouth slowly opened to a lolling tongue, speckled in feathers, while the dead owl flopped onto the dusty floorboards.


    "Hoot hoot," he proudly announced.

 5. Gob

    5. Gob


    Dot had doubted she''d be able to sleep with a goblin in the house, but sure enough she opened her eyes to find herself squinting at the morning sun.


    If it weren''t for the sprawling aches and deep bruises, she might have even confused it all for a strange dream.


    Young Gil had thankfully left, and the goblin had been overjoyed when he learned he could eat the whole owl to himself. He even seemed to have listened, judging by the relative silence, to her demands that he sleep quietly in the kitchen until she returned.


    It must have rained the night before as well, because water had leaked through the battered window shutters, and pooled underneath the warped sill.


    She looked about her room, the furnishing stolid and modest, made by her husband''s own hands using trees he''d felled. She''d seen it all so many times, but now she felt a strange twinge of shame at how much dust had gathered along the surfaces, at how tattered and threadbare her blankets and curtains had gotten.It was as if her whole life had been fading around her and she''d hardly even noticed.


    Dorothy had always taken pride in keeping her home clean and tidy. Well ordered. But as the winters alone wore on, she got more tired and less orderly. It hardly seemed to matter if things got a little cluttered when she was the only one who would see it. She wasn''t a woman who had friends or family coming over. Young Gil never stepped further than the kitchen. Not that her home had ever been that large, but they did have a sitting room for guests. That was where she''d stabbed Moira''s husbands all those winters ago.


    Dorothy still had an old wash cloth faintly stained with his blood. But then she didn''t like to throw things away for no good reason.


    Strange to think that a cloth had outlasted a man.


    Dorothy reached over, her back twinging with pain, to grab the wood etching of her husband. Dusty too, she realized, to a sudden swell of regret. She''d had a short temper with him too. And he''d never been the most patient man. But they''d been happy, and lucky, as far as those things go. She just wished she''d have known he was going to go when he did. She''d have tried to be calmer. Kinder. For the last winter, at the least. But when he''d started to go, he''d gone quick. A little cough turned into a big cough, and then he''d laid on the couch in their sitting room and never found the strength to get himself back up again. Maybe that was why there''d been no guests since. Dorothy liked to stick to her bed and the kitchen, even though the stools in there made her bones ache.


    To her surprise, Dorothy managed to struggle up out of bed, wash herself, and get dressed in fresh clothes without hearing a goblin scrabbling or screeching. She was half hoping that her unwanted visitor had gotten bored and left of his own accord when she approached the kitchen. But she opened the door to find the scrawny goblin on all fours amid scattered feathers and small bones, his excitable smile smeared with dried blood. "What do?" he asked, eyes wide. "What clan do now?"


    "I''m brewing tea."


    "Tea?" he asked.


    "Herbs in hot water. To drink."


    "Oh. Yes. Womanling is tea. What do... goblin. What do--" He pointed to himself with his clawed hands.


    "Nothing."


    The goblin''s wild face creased in confusion. "No things?"


    "Sit," she grumbled. "Be quiet."


    "No," he complained like a whining child. "Quiet not. Sit, yes. Womaning is speaking quiet. Many. Many speaking--"


    "Because you make too much noise."


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    "Oh." He stood upright. "I do...?"


    "Yes."


    "How many make?"


    "Too many."


    "How many do... do womanling wanting goblin to make?"


    "Less."


    "Oh. Make less noise," he muttered to himself, scratching behind his ear.


    "Yes," Dorothy agreed. "I want you to make less noise."


    "Womaning want many quiet," the goblin countered. "Too many!"


    "Stop calling me that," Dorothy snapped.


    "Calling what?"


    "Womanling," Dorothy said at length. "That''s not my name."


    "Oh? What name is you?"


    The old woman stared at him in frustration. "Dorothy."


    The goblin then made a painful effort of repeating the word.


    "Dot," she cut in. "You can call me Dot. And your name is?"


    "My name?" he asked, seemingly amused. "No name for me. I small goblin. Not known."


    "Gob."


    "Gob. Lin."


    "I''ll call you Gob."


    "I... Gob?" he pondered.


    "Yes."


    "Yes! I Gob," he declared with wonderment. "Dot and Gob! Is clan. Strong clan!"


    The scrawny green goblin looked around wildly, jumping up and down on the dusty floorboards, before stopping and looking questioningly at Dorothy. "What do now?"


    Dorothy let out a long sigh. "Go hunt."


    "Oh. Yes. Good think," he happily answered. "More hooting?"


    "Deer," she suggested with a sly smile, knowing from her husband''s days of hunting that they were few and far between in these parts. "Fetch the clan a great big stag."


    ***


    Dorothy''s back ached as she sat on a hard stool in her kitchen. Her arse had long since gone numb.


    She''d made some tea, which she stewed, and then made some more tea after that. Then she''d had some plain fare of stale bread and hard cheese that Young Gil had brought the night before. She''d regretted the food though as her jaw was awful sore and two teeth felt loose.


    Dorothy wondered if she shouldn''t have left with the young man. There''d always been goblins in these parts but maybe it really was getting dangerous if even healthy, well travelled men were getting afraid to wander. She could go and buy that dead man''s home or maybe even seek out her son. Meet her grandchild for the first time.


    She wondered what the goblin, Gob, would think if he got back dragging a great big deer only to find her home abandoned. She wondered, as well, what she was going to do if he got back and she was still here. Surely he wouldn''t just carry on fetching animals back to her until he''d cleared out the whole forest. And even if he was that foolish, Dorothy couldn''t help but feel a bit cruel putting him at risk. He was one of the smallest goblins she''d seen so there were plenty of things in and around the forest that could kill the little monster. Perhaps she just needed to tell him to leave. More firmly than she had before. Then he could go and be with his own kin. Not separate himself from the rest of his kind like Dorothy had.


    The truth was she''d never expected to go first. So when Gordon died she didn''t know what to do. She''d thought, or maybe even hoped, she''d go not long after. But then the seasons went by and she went by as well and all on a sudden ten winters had passed without much notice.


    She''d been alone for so long she''d forgotten what company was. And now the only company she was fit for was a scrawny, half-mad goblin.


    Dorothy sighed. She decided she would finally go and spend some time in her sitting room. Her aging frame couldn''t bear the torture of anymore time sitting on the kitchen stools.


    A knock at the door stayed her before she left the kitchen.


    Dorothy hesitated. She wondered if Young Gil had come back. There was no way Moira could have gotten here that fast.


    A second knock followed.


    "Womanling...?" The shrill voice of a goblin asked. High and garbled like Gob''s but quite the same.


    Dorothy let out a worrisome sigh. She reached over for her heavy iron pan.

 6. Unheralded

    6. Unheralded


    Dorothy opened her door just a crack, the bright light outside making her eyes even less useful as she glimped the silhouette of one short, bony figure between a pair of big and bulky ones. When her sight did adjust to the light, she was most surprised not by the three goblins standing patiently ahead of her but by the fact that the smallest among them wore what looked to be a children''s outfit that was once white but now stained in a myriad of reds, blues and browns: complete with frayed shorts, a button jacket, and a pointed feather cap.


    "Womanling?" the garbed goblin asked.


    The larger kin, flanking either side of him, wore no clothes at all, and had flat faces, their expressions equally flat and placid. But their muscles were huge, and their great fists were scabbed and scarred. One picked at their nose while another ground their heel into the dirt path beneath the broken steps. Tall as they were, they would have towered over Dorothy were it not for the stairs.


    "Yes," she reluctantly answered.


    "I am the herald of Great Chief Taruk. He asks, ''What do you on his land? Laying claim? Making war?''" he declared, speaking his own words in an almost well spoken if harsh pitch while repeating the message of Taruk in a thoughtful, deeper tone.


    "What?" Dorothy asked, having to halt him with a raised hand when he cleared his throat as if to begin again. "I live here," she then said. "Make no claim to no land beyond me home."


    "Hm." The lithe goblin smirked, baring small fangs. "This forest is Taruk''s. Land, Taruk''s. Home, Taruk''s. You do not belong, womanling."


    "I''ve lived here me whole life," Dorothy angrily countered, grip tightening around her iron pan.


    "Crush?" the bulky goblin on the right asked ponderously, but the smaller goblin shook his head.


    "Womanling," the garbed goblin spoke now in a grave tone. "You kill goblin. You take goblin. These are war things. Do you make war with Great Chief Taruk?"


    "No," Dorothy answered, shaking her head. Sickly fear bubbled up inside her gut. "I keep to meself. Peace," she assured. "Tell Chief Taruk I want peace."


    "Great Chief Taruk," the herald pointedly corrected. "We shall see," he then said, as if doubtful. "I will speak of these things. We will return."


    "Crush...?" asked the rightmost goblin again, his eyes narrowing menacingly as he balled up both great fists.


    "No crush," the herald chided. "Ugg, Tugg. Come. Follow back to clan."


    The two huge goblins looked at one another, frowning as if in disappointment, but then eventually shrugged, following the garbed goblin down the dirt road.


    Dorothy stood frozen, her arm slack at her side, still gripped around her iron pan, as the odd trio disappeared into the distant treeline. She''d heard tall tales of goblins who could speak better than most men, and of the Great Chiefs who ruled over multiple clans and laid claim to great swathes of land. But she never imagined that one would be sending a herald to an old woman''s door to ask if she were trying to start a war. She''d thought the goblin she''d bested was big before, but now this new pair stood twice as high and twice as wide. Dorothy wouldn''t have even a sliver of a chance if that messenger came back and decided it was time for them to crush. Maybe it was about time she did start packing a bag. She was planning to at least eat the food that Young Gil had brought before she made any decision, but maybe she should leave that as an offering for this Great Chief Taruk instead. In the hopes that he didn''t decide to have her hunted down when she fled.


    ***


    Dorothy was half way through packing, one sack full of her sentimental things, and the other full of supplies, as she pulled out everything she owned and sorted through it as well and as swiftly as she might.


    When another knock sounded at her door, it was faint enough that she was happy to discount it. But when the second strike was more insistent her heart began to beat very heavy in her chest. She wondered if this Great Chief Taruk lived closer by than she might have otherwise imagined. And if he and his followers were back to avenge their fallen kin.


    Hesitating, Dorothy considered jumping out of her window, but she''d heard that goblins could smell folk from far off, and she doubted she''d manage to escape without making a sound. Like as not, she''d be spotted and dragged out before she was half way through the shutters. So she decided in the end to answer the door same as before. The clothed goblin had been able to speak well enough at least, so maybe she could reason with him if not this Great Chief. Surely they''d be able to understand that an old woman being on their land didn''t pose much risk to any of them.


    She grabbed her pan, despite thinking it wouldn''t be of much use, and headed towards the door. But when she heard a familiar sniff of distaste and impatience, she realized, almost with regret, that she had a different kind of visitor. The kind you couldn''t beat round the head without falling foul of a law or two.


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    "Hurry up," Moira demanded from outside her home, tapping her boot on the stairs. "I know you''re old, Dora, but surely you can move quicker than that." Her voice was just as whining and demanding, and made Dorothy just as mad to hear. That she still insisted calling her Dora after all this time infuriated her as well. Dorothy had never understood the name. Something to do with her and the nickname being adorable. But she reckoned it was just one of those things that people said that made just enough sense for noone to question it. When in fact their true reasons were entirely petty, and Moira had only ever made up the name to annoy her. "Gods above, I don''t have all day, you know. Gil said you were hurt but he didn''t say you''d suffered two broken legs."


    "Coming..."


    "I can hear you, Dora. You''re not moving."


    "Maybe you''re going deaf."


    "You''re the one with the bad ears. I can hear, and see, quite fine. Now I only--"


    Dorothy stepped forward, to open the door. The sun had begun to set outside, so it didn''t take long for eyes to adjust to the dusky afternoon.


    Moira had stayed tall despite their similar age. Her blond hair had gone silvery grey, and her cheeks were gaunter than ever. But she was still standing defiant and proud, wearing a long blue summer dress that she''d no doubt acquired as a much younger woman. "Gods," she muttered. "You truly do look awful. Sure you''re not a draugr?" she quipped.


    Dorothy bared her teeth. "Gil''s mistaken. Don''t need your help."


    Moira''s keen gaze focused on the iron pan. "Planning on beating me? Or scared I was another goblin? Gil said you''d been talking tall tales about brawling with monsters. That the blood, is it?" she asked, waving towards a discoloured patch of dirt and grass. "Looks like you crushed a rat to me. But Gil will believe anything, won''t he? Told me you still insist on calling him Young Gil."


    Dorothy scowled. "So...?"


    "So?" Moira mockingly echoed. "His dad died winters ago, you silly woman. He told you but you keep forgetting. Next you''ll tell me you''ve forgotten you stabbed Eustace."


    Dorothy found her cheeks flushing with anger, and her hand wrapped tighter round the pan''s handle. "''Member that just fine."


    "I always thought it was cute," Moira added. "The way you doted after him. And him being kind as he was, no wonder you got the wrong idea."


    "He''s the one--" Dorothy angrily began.


    "Yes, yes," Moira''s eyes widened sardonically and she shook her head. "Of course, Dora. Of course. He''s the one who took a shine to you. Desperately fancied some tired mutton when he had fresh venision at home. Never you mind all that. The past is in the past, I always say. Best to move on and forget about these things. We''re both older now. Widowed. Does it really matter who tried to steal who''s husband?" She offered a broad smile. "Well... are you going to invite me in?"


    Dorothy''s cheeks had turned fully red. Moira was telling lies so quick it was hard for Dorothy to know which she should bite back against. "No."


    "No...?" Moira asked as if genuinely surprised."It''s getting dark, Dora. You can hardly expect--"


    "My name ain''t Dora!" Dorothy growled. "''nd you ain''t welcome in me home. Now get gone before I see to you like I did the goblin."


    Moira tutted. "You truly have turned feral," she remarked with a cruel smirk. "I had heard once the mind goes the mood does as well though. But I should warn you, wounds or not, I won''t be coming back here. I plan on heading into town in the morning and never looking back. There''s an upstart goblin kicking up a fuss. Forcing good folk out of the forest and killing those who refuse. Rumour is they might have to put a call out for men to come and take it''s head from it''s shoulders. But I think best I leave this awful forest behind me. Nothing here left here but mad crones and bad memories. Still... if you manage to calm yourself down, it probably is best that we travel together. Roads are hardly safe, and you''re not going to be able to stick around here for much longer."


    Dorothy crossed her arms, and slowly shook her head. "Not going nowhere with you, Moira."


    "Don''t be silly," Moira dismissed. "I''m sorry that I raised your hackles, Dora...thy. I was just reminiscing about old times. Who knew you''d still be so sore about things after all these winters. Eustace was an old pervert. Maybe he did put his hands where they didn''t belong. You made sure he paid the price for that if he did. Surely you''re not going to have an old woman sleep out in the cold, are you?" she pressed amicably. "Even if you don''t want to travel together, I can hardly make the journey safely by night. Let me sleep in the kitchen if you must, and I''ll be gone by first light."


    Dorothy''s temper started to lessen. It was hard to hate someone, no matter how proud or spiteful, once the fear crept into their eyes. But then what if Gob came clambering back through the kitchen. That would be a hard one to explain to Moira and to the village, who would hear of it a dozen times over from her wagging lips. "Fine," she grumbled. "You can stay in the sitting room."


    "There we are," she declared, lightly clapping her hands together in excitement. "Gil said he''d fetched you some wine...? And I suppose you may as well make use of that pan since you''re so fond of it, and whip us up something to eat. I always did think you were a reasonable cook. You''ve certainly been eating well by the looks of you!"


    Dorothy''s eyes narrowed as she stood blocking the door.


    "Dora -- come on now," Moira said, proferring her hands in mock surrender. "What''s a few jests between old friends?"


    "Should have told ''im to hunt you," Dorothy muttered, stepping back and letting the taller woman enter.


    "What was that?" Moira asked.


    "Never you mind."

 7. Packing Up

    7. Packing Up


    "So you are planning on leaving?" Moira surmised, as they stepped into the sitting room to find most of her things strewn around the tables, chairs, and deeply cushioned couch.


    Dorothy''s mind raced to find a likely answer, but she''d all but forgotten she''d started packing to begin with. "No," she dimissed. "Cleaning is all. Gettin'' rid of some things."


    "You know," Moira said, eyeing her suspiciously, "if I weren''t such a trusting woman, I might think you are planning on leaving but you just don''t want me as your travelling companion."


    Dorothy made a dismissive sort of murmur. "I ain''t plannin'' on leavin'', but if I was you''d be the last person to accompany me. Lie as you might, we ain''t old friends."


    "No?" Moira placed her steaming bowl of stew on the table, moving some clothes off the chair so she could take a seat. "You used to visit at least once a season."


    "Only neighbours we had."


    "Don''t recall you getting new neighbours," Moira mentioned, idling supping at a spoonful of stew. "How long has it been since you visited last? Over ten winters?"


    Dorothy grunted. "Wonder why that might be."


    "You stabbing Eustace did somewhat sour things."


    Dorothy sat on the couch, on a narrow spot that wasn''t covered with her hastily stacked clothes. But she didn''t much feel like eating anymore. "Weren''t that for me."


    Moira sat staring forward, not bothering to look over to her. "No...?"


    "Sharp knife''s a quick answer to wandering hands," Dorothy muttered. "But your lies was what I couldn''t stomach. Spread through town like flames through tinder. Lost me a lot of friends that did. Least I thought they were friends. Lucky for me that Gordon was a trusting sort or that could''ve gone a lot worse. All for the sake of your fun."


    "Fun?" Moira doubtfully echoed. "It wasn''t fun for me at all. Only slightly more bearable than having the whole town laughing behind my back because my Eustace can''t keep his hands to himself. Besides... what was I supposed to do? Turn on my own husband? That''s not how the world works, is it? I''d thrown my lot in. I made do with what I had. Even if that meant your reputation had to get a little tarnished. It wasn''t like you ever cared what people thought to begin with. Eustace wanted nothing to do with me most days. I needed those people on my side. Far more than you did."


    "Long as you''re happy, eh, Moira?"


    "Happy?" Moira asked. "What a stupid thing to think. Look at us, Dorothy. We''re old. Poor. Barely managing to survive in a forest full of goblins and worse. Our best days are well and truly behind us. If I''m lucky I''ll find some half-blind fool to spend my last winters with and if I''m not I''m going to die alone. Haven''t heard from my children in as long as I can remember. They probably think I''m dead. And you were really the only friend I ever had and look how that went. Come here after all this time and you look liable to beat me to death with a pan."


    Dorothy bitterly chuckled. "Can''t say you wouldn''t have earned it."


    "I am sorry," Moira then said, glancing back over her shoulder. And there was a vulnerability in her voice that Dorothy had never heard before. "I... well, I was looking out for myself. But I should have come to you. You weren''t the sort to gossip. And you weren''t the sort to hold grudges, neither. I was embarrassed, I suppose. Jealous. Enraged. I wanted to beat you over the head with a pan as well. Then when he finally died I wondered what it was all for. All my youth and vigor given to this life we had that wasn''t really a life at all. Crying over his deathbed not for my husband but for myself. Wishing you''d have stabbed him in the neck instead," she added. "Though then you''d really have set the tongues wagging."


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    She stopped speaking for a long while and quietly sniffled to herself.


    "Too thick," Dorothy finally replied.


    "Hm?"


    "His neck. Girdled by all those chins. Couldn''t cut through it if I tried."


    "Oh," Moira answered, levity returning to her tone. "You''re probably right. I struggled to find his cock some nights."


    Dorothy made a face, shocked to hear her talking so improper, and then she barked out a laugh.


    Moira turned to her with a hopeful, regretful little smile playing on her sorrowed face. "So about that wine..."


    ***


    Dorothy had never been good with liquor. But it was a change, not the most pleasant change mind, to wake up to an ache that was less of her body and more of her mind.


    She felt queasy and her head throbbed not cause of her sore jaw but because she''d had a few too many cups of wine.


    Her and Moira had stayed up most the night, chatting and drinking, and it had almost been like old times. They had been living in a distant memory like they were the best of friends again.


    But then Dorothy had shuffled off to bed and she''d awoke to how things were and not how they''d been.


    The truth was she could forgive Moira for her lies. She''d had a reason, at least. But she couldn''t forgive all those people who had so readily turned against her. She didn''t want to go and live among a town of folk who had gone against her off the back of some scandalous lies.


    They should have known better.


    Dorothy wasn''t the sort to go around stabbing folk without good reason.


    She had explained as much to Moira, who had seemed genuinely disappointed, and offered to stay for a night or two longer, but Dorothy said that she better be on her way. Both because she should and because she didn''t know when one goblin or another might turn back up at her door.


    Bad enough if this Chief Taruk wanted to kill Dorothy. But there was no need for Moira to get tangled up in the trouble as well.


    "That''s that, then?" Moira had asked now she stood by the open door of the kitchen. "Sure you''re not gonna change your mind?"


    "No chance of that," Dorothy dismissed. "This is my place. I''m too old to be starting over. Sure these goblins aren''t gonna bother themselves with an old woman."


    "Let''s hope not," Moira said with a worried smile. "Or I''ll have a dangerous trek into town. If you change your mind--"


    "I''ll come and find you," Dorothy assured.


    The taller woman stepped forward to offer an awkward hug and then she stepped out and descended the stairs. "Best of luck, Dorothy," she called back to the kitchen.


    "You as well," Dorothy replied. She was about to shut the door when Moira made a surprised yelp.


    "Er... Dorothy," Moira began in a worried tone, "theres--well, you might want to come out and take a look at this yourself."


    Dorothy''s unease grew as she stepped out the door and crossed down the stairs. Thankfully, there were no giant goblins in sight, but her eyes soon found what Moira was looking at. Gob, battered and bloody, had dragged a dead stag out from the forest, but looked to have gotten tired or died before he reached the house. Dorothy felt a sudden flood of guilt. "Is he alive...?"


    "What?" Moira answered. "How should I know? I don''t want to get close enough to find out."


    "Come on," Dorothy demanded, marching towards the fallen goblin. "Help me bring him inside."


    "The goblin?" Moira asked in disbelief. "Have you lost your wits?We ought to leave it to die or finish it off."


    "Help me," Dorothy said again. Please, Moira," she added more desperately, unable to shift the weight of the stag off of Gob. "I know the goblin. I sent him after the deer to begin with. Least I can do is take him inside ''nd patch him up."


    Moira scrutinised her for a long moment as if Dorothy had turned completely witless. "Fine. But you''re going to explain to me exactly what''s been going on here."

 8. Caretaker

    8. Caretaker


    Dorothy sat watching Gob shiver on a couch that was far too big for him. She''d rolled a dress under his grimy green neck, and covered him in a patchwork blanket.


    Though she wasn''t even sure if goblins needed to stay covered up when they were injured. But it made her feel better at the least. And Gob looked a little more comfortable wrapped up as he was.


    She''d managed to stitch a couple wounds and remove a broken bit of antler from Gob''s stomach. By the looks of both corpses, the scrawny goblin had tried to kill the deer by jumping on its neck and ripping out its throat. Which seemed to have worked. But then the two of them must have gone down together in a thunderous tumble, nearly crushing Gob and impaling him.


    Dorothy had explained to Moira, while both women saw to the goblin''s wounds, what had happened and how her and Gob had come to meet. And she''d explained as well about this Great Chief Taruk. But by the end Dorothy couldn''t tell whether Moira thought she was mad, and disbelieved her, or did believe her and thought she was madder still.


    In either case, she''d been keen to leave not long after, making mention of the fading daylight. But it was clear to Dorothy that she was scared and panicked, and wanted to leave for reasons other than the rise and fall of the sun.


    Moira had promised not to tell anyone in town about Gob, but Dorothy didn''t hold out much hope of that. Lucky for her, most folk already thought poorly of Dorothy, so if they learned she was keeping a goblin as a pet then they''d likely not be that surprised.


    But if what Moira said about men coming to slay Taruk was true, then they might not look kindly on her sheltering Gob. Which was a lot of things to worry about for an old woman. And that wasn''t even covering what she was supposed to do if this Great Chief Taruk did turn up at her door wanting to make war.


    "Stupid old fool," Dorothy muttered to herself, getting up from the sitting room and heading towards the kitchen. "Should have kept your head down."


    The rich smells of venison stew wafted out to meet her as she opened the door. The broth slowly bubbled over the fire, and even as tired and stressed as she felt, it made her fiercely hungry.


    Nearly two days had passed since Moira had left, and Gob hadn''t done much more than murmur in all that time, so Dorothy had tried to stay busy to keep her mind occupied. There was a part of her that found it strange how much she cared about the goblin, but she reckoned that was mostly down to guilt. She should have just sent him on his way instead of trying to trick him.


    She might have saved him first time around, but it would be her fault now if he died.


    Dorothy spooned some stew into a worn wooden bowl, making sure to get chunks of meat and vegetables along with the broth. She set it on top of a cupboard to cool while she sliced off a husk of bread from a loaf.


    Stomach rumbling, and mouth dry, she was beyond ready to eat, but she heard footfalls approaching from the dirt road. Not one set of steps, she realized grimly, but dozens.


    "Womanling!" came a proud and impatient call. "Come and face Great Chief Taruk!"


    ***


    Dorothy''s mind had raced once she realized what was happening. Going as fast as it had ever gone. Going swiftly from nowhere to nowhere.


    Peeking out of her door, the house was surrounded by goblins, and there would be no way for her to escape unnoticed and no chance of her outrunning even the slowest of them.


    More shouts had come, and the crowd outside was getting impatient, but Dorothy had decided in the end to do nothing. Nothing except pray. That way she might come to peace with her life, and her looming death, before she stepped out the door and faced her fate.


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    "Womanling!" the proud voice roared for a third time. "This is the last I ask. I can smell the decay of your skin amid the stink of deer flesh. Come out, or I will break down your door!"


    Dorothy let out a long and shuddering sigh. She smiled regretfully to herself now she slowly pushed open the door.


    The sight before her was almost dumbfounding. The herald and the two giant twins had returned, but so too stood over three score goblins all of different shapes and sizes, nearly a third of them wearing poorly fitted, mostly frayed clothes.


    They carried weapons, some roughly crafted, others clearly stolen from humans, and slings and bows and shields. It was a rag tag army of goblins standing outside of her door.


    Then ahead of them all towered Great Chief Taruk. His eyes were keen and bright, coloured blue like the sky. His head was squared and his jaw was chiselled, almost like a man''s. He had no hair, but he wore a long shirt with a single sleeve, and had wrapped beaded string around his pate. The breast bone of a bird hung from a necklace, resting between his muscled chest. He was hugely tall, over seven feet, but stolid and looked to be carved from stone like a statue of old.


    Strangest of all, Dorothy almost considered him handsome now he smirked up at her, his two small fangs protruding from his lower lip. "Womanling. I do not like to wait."


    "Patience is a virtue," she answered, surprised by the surety of her own delivery.


    "Hm." Taruk slightly cocked his head. An axe of a strange make rested on a belt across his hips, while a shield, seemingly wrought of a single piece of bronze, covered his back. Dorothy wondered if he and his clan had been raiding old dwarven ruins. "What is a virtue?" he eventually asked.


    Having left her pan inside, Dorothy didn''t know what to do with her hands. "A quality. To aspire to. Like honour to your kind."


    Taruk raised his hairless brow. "Waiting is honour to the womanling? Is that how you became so old?" he asked with a sly smile.


    "Just lucky, I suppose."


    "Luck." He tutted. "I do not believe in it. I think... perhaps," he then said, "I have been deceived. Or, my clan have fooled themselves. For I was told you are a fierce fighter. Making a clan."


    "I''m just an old woman. Your goblins came to my house at night and there was a fight. Five against one. Didn''t think that was right, and they were on my land, so--"


    "My land," Taruk cut in, his bright eyes darkening. "This, and all around, is my land, womanling. So long it has been, so long it should be. Though the manlings do favour forgetting."


    "Well... I got involved. The big one wanted to duel, and I won. Honourable combat. Can''t fault me for that, can you?" Dorothy asked.


    "Hm. No fault," he agreed. He then rolled his neck, and rested one hand on the handle of his masterwork axe. "Where is the survivor?"


    "Depends," Dorothy said, trying to master her fear and summon all of her courage. "I won''t let you eat ''im."


    "Won''t you?" Taruk bared his teeth. He stepped forward, raising his axe ahead of him. "Can you defeat me, womanling? Honorable combat."


    "No," she conceded. "Doesn''t mean I won''t try if you''ve violence in mind."


    Taruk met the words with a broad smile. "Brave," he remarked. "Foolish. But brave, womanling. I will not eat the goblin, but he must return. It is not the way of the world for a goblin to live with a manling. You are not his mother," he added, speaking the last word with a deal of venom. "Goblins do not have mothers."


    "He''ll be safe?" Dorothy hopefully asked.


    "The world is not safe," Taruk countered. "He will not be harmed. Most goblins do not have wisdom either. He fled in fear. This is the way of all living things."


    Dorothy slowly nodded, but held her ground now Taruk ascended the steps. The wood creaked underfoot and she was surprised they held his weight with the railing broken. "I--" she began, wanting more assurances, but he simply shoved her aside and ducked into the kitchen.


    Great Chief Taruk looked cramped in the small kitchen. He wandered over to the boiling broth, sniffing, and then searched quickly around before moving through to the corridor.


    He stomped through to the bedroom, pulling open cupboards and draws, before marching back towards the sitting room.


    Dorothy had beaten him there, but they both ended up with the same question.


    "Where is the survivor?" Taruk asked again with less patience, looming over her, his breath hot and rancid. Gob was gone.

 9. Missing

    9. Missing


    Dorothy had seen no reason to lie. She''d explained as best she could with an angry goblin looming over her that Gob had been injured and that last she knew he was lying on the couch. But he''d disappeared since and she''d no clue where he''d gotten to.


    Taruk had listened with what seemed to be patience, but he now issued a low growl and grabbed her by her hair. He placed the cold edge of the axe against her throat. "Truth, womanling?"


    "Truth," she stuttered, while a cold paralysing fear the likes she''d never felt before took a hold of her frail frame. "No reason to lie... and I''m not to blame. Your clan are the ones who let him wander off under their noses."


    Taruk''s grip tightened on her hair and Dorothy braced herself for the agony of having her head hacked off. But then the towering goblin let go, and belted his axe. "Truth."


    He strode back into the kitchen.


    Dorothy took a shaky breath, surprised she hadn''t died and surprised she hadn''t wet herself. She looked around for Gob but couldn''t see him hiding anywhere.


    "Womanling," Taruk called from the kitchen.


    Dorothy reluctantly walked over, wondering if her iron pan would do any damage at all to such a powerful foe.


    "You have lived here many moons," he said when she approached. "Your stink is everywhere. So I will permit you to live upon my lands, as your prime is so far behind you. But the survivor must be returned for us to make a peace. I will come back here and you will return him to me. Or I will come back here and take your life instead."


    "What if I can''t--"


    Great Chiefs Taruk turned, cutting her short with a pitiless glare. "I have shown you mercy, womanling. You are... lucky," he mocked.


    The huge goblin then departed, ducking back under the doorway, but Dorothy had chased after him.


    "Wait," she said. "Take this."


    She offered him the now lukewarm bowl of venison stew.


    Taruk stared at her in suspicion, eventually taking the worn bowl from her hands. "Poison?"


    Dorothy simply shook her head.


    He sniffed the bowl, swallowed a few hearty mouthfuls, and then passed the rest to his herald as he left.


    "We will soon return, womanling," Taruk called over his shoulder, not looking back while the gathered goblins parted to either side of the dirt road. "Do not be empty handed. This is not worth dying for."


    ***


    Dorothy had poured herself a second bowl of stew, but now she stared down at the steam twisting up from the broth she found that her appetite, much like Gob, had disappeared.


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    She couldn''t quite believe that what had happened had actually happened, and that a well spoken goblin leader had come to her home to demand the return of one of their scrawny kin.


    Surely neither Gob, nor Dorothy, were important enough to bothering with like this.


    She should have never gotten herself involved to begin with.


    Leave the goblins to the goblins.


    She was all too ready to hand Gob back to his own kind, but now she wasn''t even sure if she''d be able to find him before Taruk came back to chop off her head.


    Probably best for all involved if she just packed up her things and left. Gob would find his own way home, and the goblins wouldn''t bother pursuing an old woman into what they saw as manling lands.


    "Foolish woman," she muttered to herself.


    She tore a chunk off bread with her, she regretfully realized, ungodly sore teeth. Then spat it into the bowl to soften in the stew.


    Eventually remembering her hunger, she finished the bowl and a large helping of soggy bread.


    It wasn''t the best meal she''d ever made but it had been a long while since she''d had fresh meat.


    Her husband had always been a talented hunter, and he had brought home game both big and small. Though he never had managed to bring back a stag.


    Gordon had always put a lot of faith in Laykia the Huntress, so slaying the beast that was her idol probably didn''t sit quite right with him.


    He was a hard man in most things, Dorothy always thought, but terribly soft in others. It was a shame he''d never got to see Robert''s babe ''cause no doubt he would have doted on his first grandchild.


    Dorothy had always done her best with whatever maternal instincts she had, but they weren''t ample to begin with. She''d taken good care of her son, but always felt a little like she was playing a part.


    And she never saw much of herself in the boy. She couldn''t remember if that was why she was so set on having a girl after, or if she''d wanted the girl before, and maybe that was she she''d struggled with a son instead.


    So many winters ago now it was hard to remember the things she did nevermind the things she thought or the order she thought them in.


    If her current predicament was anything to go by, then she''d never had a talent for thinking to begin with. Maybe that was why Gordon was always telling her to keep her head down. He was just trying to stop her getting it hacked off by some dwarven axe.


    Dorothy walked back into her sitting room, surveying all her things cast about all over every chair and surface, dimly lit by a pair of wavering candles.


    She''d come in here to finish sorting things out, but the sight of all the work she had to do robbed her of any motivation.


    She''d never liked packing even at the best of times, and now, even with the threat of death looming over her head, she wasn''t sure what to bring.


    Like as not it didn''t much matter what she brought at all. She couldn''t have that many winters left ahead of her, and she only ever wore a handful of the clothes she owned.


    Maybe she didn''t even need a pair of sacks, just the clothes on her back, food for the journey, and a few keepsakes.


    Least then she might travel light enough to get clear of the forest before any other goblins caught wind of her.


    Dorothy sighed, and settled down on the couch, wondering if it would be wise to travel with the setting sun or to wait for the coming dawn.


    "Taruk gone?" a high and strangled voice asked beside her.


    Dorothy jumped, her heart skipping a beat as she looked around for the speaker.


    "Taruk gone," the voice assuredly repeated. She looked down at the pile of clothes beside her to see Gob''s wild eyes staring up, his fanged smile showing as a sliver amid the fabrics.


    "Oi," Dorothy grumbled. "Get out of there!"


    Gob leapt up, sending clothes flying, and landed amid the sitting room. "Dot!" he happily greeted. "Chief Dot!" he corrected with a shallow bow. "What do now?"

 10. Misbegotten

    10. Misbegotten


    "What you''re gonna do," Dorothy said, "is go back to Taruk. Back to your clan."


    Gob was shaking his head, a long scarf still draped over his shoulders. "No, no. Us clan. Taruk bad! Dot good!"


    "We ain''t a clan, Gob. No clans ''tween goblins and humans. Manlings," she corrected. "Or womanlings for that matter. I got no room for you here."


    "Gob no room," he happily countered. "Small. Very small!"


    "Well I''m leaving, either way," Dorothy grumbled. "Off to live with the other manlings. So you''ve nowhere else to go."


    Gob''s wild features tightened in distress. "No leave, Chief Dot. Gob will be... not safe. Danger! Gob dies!" he all but screeched.


    "You''ll be fine. Better off than ya are now. Taruk told me you''d not be harmed."


    "He is a lie! Not truth. I run from dead. Taruk make war. Taruk shaman want sacrifice. For bad magic! Sacrifice is Gob!" he declared with wide terrified eyes. "But Gob is small -- quick! He runs. Runs. And runs more running. New sacrifice -- yes! But Gob still dies. I am truth, Chief Dot. I am truth! Trust Gob! Pleasing!"


    Dorothy''s head started to throb. The more panicked the scrawny goblin got, the more shrill he spoke. Not that his desperation didn''t pull at her heart strings, or that she didn''t feel awful for abandoning him in such a state of distress, but there wasn''t much she could do. Gob wasn''t safe here. He wasn''t safe with humans. And by the sounds of it he wasn''t save with his own kind, either.


    "Hear me?" Gob pressed in a hopeful tone. "Trust Gob?" he asked, baring his fangs in the slightest of smiles.


    "I believe you, Gob," she admitted. "But there''s nothin'' I can do. Manlings won''t have you. Your clan won''t have you. Taruk wants me off his land."


    "There is," Gob assured, nodding to himself. "There is you can do, Chief Dot. Fight Taruk. Taruk dies!" He grinned. "Great Chief Dot!"


    Dorothy met the words with a doubtful stare. "How do you suppose an old womanling is supposed to slay Great Chief Taruk?"


    "Hm." Gob cocked his heed. "This is... question. Very big. Not strong. Not quick. Taruk greatest warrior! Womanling... not. How do, Chief Dot? We know?"


    "It was your plan, Gob."


    The scrawny goblin simply shrugged, pulling the scarf from his neck and stomping it into the dusty floorboards. "Gob not knowing. You Chief. You are knowing."


    Dorothy scowled at down at him, then started packing away more of her things.


    Gob was watching her hopefully, scratching idly behind one hear. "So...?"


    "So what?"


    "Dot fight Taruk? Yes. Chief to Chief? Protect Gob!"


    "I might," she answered and was surprised that she didn''t even feel like she was lying. "Best I pack some bags in case I decide otherwise."


    "What all this mean?" asked Gob quizzically.


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    "Never you mind."


    "What do now?" Gob asked.


    "We pack, then we sleep. And try to figure out how an old woman is supposed to slay a giant goblin."


    "Oh!" Gob excitedly shouted. "I am knowing, Dot."


    Dorothy frowned. "How?"


    "Chief to Chief!" he declared the same as before. "Or else. So many to one. Not good!"


    The old woman simply stared without patience at the wild-eyed goblin who smiled hopefully back at her. "Not good," she unhappily agreed.


    "But take care," warned Gob. "Great Chief Taruk is strong. Most strongest! Always winner. Chief to Chief!" he added, his cat-like eyes glazing over with what looked like a mix of doubtful confusion. "But..." he began breathlessly. "Chief Dot is also always winner! So both can always win!" he surmised, looking quite relieved with his own conclusion.


    Dorothy didn''t quite follow his logic, but she couldn''t deny she had indeed won a duel. One she''d also had no hope of winning. So maybe an old woman really could slay a Great Chief.


    ***


    Dorothy had packed a single bag full of her most treasured possessions, which were thankfully not numerous nor overly cumbersome. She''d taken a few changes of clothes as well, and a blanket and bedroll if she needed it. The weight wasn''t too great so it would be easy enough to carry and she''d made peace with leaving the rest of her things behind. That was, if she did decide to run. She''d still been wracking her brain trying to think of how she might defeat a goblin far younger, far larger and far stronger than she was.


    She''d come up with three ways, but neither one of them was fool proof.


    There was Gordon''s old hunting bow, which she might be able to re-string and use to kill Taruk at a distance. She could fashion a trap of some kind and hope to maim Taruk and finish him off. Or she could poison the Great Chief instead. But she reasoned that neither one of these three choices, even if they did kill Taruk, would help her much at all. The goblin clan might pay her some credence and respect if she really did beat their leader to death with an iron pan, but she doubted they''d look too kindly on an old woman using cowardly methods to kill a Great Chief.


    Not to mention there was a part of Dorothy that didn''t want to kill him at all. He didn''t seem any different or any worse than plenty of other men she''d met over the years. There were brigands and bandits more who were just as murderous and not as well spoken. Wasn''t that long ago that these forests really were considered goblin lands. When Dorothy first moved here with Gordon there were barely any other people around at all. Most other folk lived back behind Ragni''s Divide, the great fortified river that had always served as the dividing line between goblin and human lands. But countless winters had passed since the days of Ragni the Red and her kind had encroached further and further into the forests that were once off limits to humans.


    If any Jarl or lesser lord had made some ancestral claim and took it by force he''d be lauded for restoring his birthright. Great Chief Taruk would be hunted instead.


    "Have you lost your mind, woman?" Dorothy whispered to herself. "First you''re sheltering ''em, now you''re sympathizing with ''em. Get gone before you get eaten."


    "What say?" asked Gob excitedly, dashing into the sitting room. He carried a cup in one hand, connected to a red ball by a piece of string. It was a simple toy, but it had thankfully kept the scrawny goblin quiet and entertained for a long while. "Oh." His wild features bunched together, and he began to snuff. "Blood. Goblins. Hide...?"


    Dorothy was puzzling what he meant when she heard heavy footfalls coming quick down the dirt road. "Oh," she echoed. "Hide," she agreed.


    She headed towards the kitchen, grabbing her iron pan and belting a sharp knife, while she took a deep and steadying breath. She was surprised to find herself unafraid, and slowly filling instead with clear-eyed determination. If the goblins had come back to kill her, she wouldn''t go quietly. She wasn''t going to freeze up again like she had with Taruk. Dorothy had always stood up for herself, and there was no need to live in fear of losing a few more meagre winters.


    Swift steps ascended the steps beyond the kitchen, and a soft knocking rattled the door. "Womanling," a voice quietly said.


    Dorothy stepped forward, opening the way and then taking a step back, one hand on her pan the other on the knife at her belt.


    The herald, still wearing his colourful children''s clothes stood ahead of her. Though now half of his ear had been bloodily cut off, while a nasty gash gleamed black on his shoulder.


    The red blood of humans had been smeared across his fangs. "Womanling help?" he hopefully ventured.

 11. In the Middle

    11. In the Middle


    Dorothy stepped aside to let the wounded herald in, and only then noticed the giant goblin trailing behind him. It was one of the huge twins she''d seen before, only there was one of them now, missing three thick fingers and with three feathered arrow shafts sticking out of his broad shoulders. He was looking all around the forest clearing as he approached, seemingly worried about pursuers.


    The steps creaked under the goblin''s great weight. Dorothy breathed a sigh of relief when they didn''t break. She then winced, witnessing the horrid clatter of wood now the huge goblin tried to duck through the door, forgetting about the arrows in his back, and caught all three of them on the frame. He growled, more confused than hurt, and Dorothy had to grab his arm to pull him low enough to get into the kitchen. "Pain," he murmured to her. "Great pain. Helping?"


    "I''ll try," she offered, letting go of him.


    The herald had climbed up on a kitchen counter, and was scouting out of the half-shuttered window. "No manlings... yet," he said to his kin. "Soon," he said to Dorothy. "We must hide. Outnumbered."


    Dorothy scowled at the garbed goblin, looking between them both doubtfully. "Can''t hide ''im."


    "We can," the herald lightly assured. He leapt across the kitchen, onto the huge goblin''s shoulders. Pulling one arrow loose with an awful scraping of flesh, he was nearly thrown clear but kept hold. "Tugg. Stay. I am helping. Trust Sapo," he added, chewing instead through the next shaft when he couldn''t pull it clear. Thankfully, the third came easily loose. Great chunks of flesh were still stuck to the barbs, dripping black blood onto the kitchen floor. "Womanling, " Sapo said to Dorothy, staring down from Tugg''s bloody shoulder. "We must hide," he repeated. "Manlings come. Soon. You must deceive them. Or else more death."


    "Help," Tugg agreed, swaying slightly from side to side. "Please," he added with a sorrowed smile.


    Dorothy''s ears started to ring and her head began to ache. She tightly pressed her eyes closed for a long moment while she tried to think.


    When she opened her eyes, the disparate pair were gone, mismatched footfalls parting ways at the corridor.


    Things were getting well and truly out of hand. She didn''t even know why the goblins had come back here to begin with, and now they were wanting her help after they were the ones threatening to force her from the forest and cut off her head.


    She half reckoned she should just hand them over to any manlings who did come along and then be done with the whole sorry saga.


    But then Gob might get caught up in the conflict too.


    "Stay hidden! Stay quiet!" she shouted around the house, hoping all three goblins would hear.


    "Gods above," she muttered, realizing the goblins had tracked black and red blood all over the kitchen. No doubt there was a trail leading right to her home. Quick as she could manage in her old age, she rushed around to grab a cloth, a mop and a bucket.


    ***


    "Good woman," greeted an almost comforting voice from behind her. She''d heard the steps approach, but she''d hoped acting a bit lackadaisical might make her seem less suspicious. "My name is Harold. Your friend, Moira, passed us on the road and asked us to look in on you. She said you''d had some run ins with the local goblin clans?"


    Dorothy didn''t answer. She''d been wiping patches of blood up from the dirt path and now realised how strange it would seem to a passerby to see an old woman cleaning the dirt. She eventually said, "Left a mess."


    "I can see that. Have you seen any today? We crossed swords with two enormous goblins on the way in, and are in pursuit."


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    "Not today," she quietly answered.


    "Too many tracks," called a younger man more distantly. "Whole clans been in and around here. We sure she ain''t a witch, captain?"


    The captain met the question with a doubtful grunt. He stepped around and looked down on Dorothy.


    He was a portly man, with greying and receding hair, but he had a kind smile and must have caught the eye of many women when he was younger. He reminded Dorothy of her husband. "Not a witch, are you, Dorothy?" he asked lightly. "You are Dorothy...?"


    "I am," she answered, wondering what else Moira had told them about her. "You are?"


    "Harold," he hesitantly offered. And Dorothy realised he''d already told her his name. "Me and my men, here, are leading a scouting party in advance of a larger army. There''s a goblin in these forests calling himself a Great Chief. Been gathering a lot of clans under his banner. Best to end these things before they truly begin. Don''t want a repeat of the last war."


    Dorothy made a contemplative sort of murmur, and then started to rise.


    Harold offered her a sturdy hand to aid her ascent. "My scout says many goblins have come through here..."


    "Aye," Dorothy answered, brushing dirt from her apron. "I''d got woke by a gang of goblins in the night. Scrapped with one. The Great Chiefs, Taruk, came here and said I needed to give back a goblin who''d ran off after my fight. Or else he''ll kill me. But I don''t have any goblins to give. So I''ve been packing to leave instead."


    Harold blinked, taking a step back. He looked to the men behind him. Half a dozen, Dorothy saw now, with three carrying swords and shields and two more wielding bows. Harold and the swordsman all wore mail armour while the archers wore leather. "She says Taruk has been through here," he explained to his men. "Might be deeper in than we think. Explains the other three."


    "Then we should head back," said the youngest scout. "I ain''t ending the day in a goblin''s belly."


    "Hm." Harold''s brow was furrowed in concentration when he turned back. "Dorothy. Grab your things and we''ll take you back to town."


    Dorothy shook her head. "No."


    "Told you she''s a witch," said the young scout.


    "I''ll only slow ya down," Dorothy then added. "I ain''t packed yet. Won''t be ready to leave ''til dark. If you''ve clashed with goblins then they''ll know you''re here and be back to find you. They won''t be searching for an old woman."


    Harold was forcefully shaking his head. "I must insist," he said almost in pleading. "You''ll be placing--"


    "I''ll be insisting," Dorothy assured. "I''ll leave when I''m good and ready." She''d spoke overly harsh and felt bad, so offered a genuine smile. "Grateful as I am for your concern."


    A faint screeching sounded out amid the distant trees, answered by a jeering squeal.


    "Boy''s right," said the oldest swordsman among them. "If they ain''t killed her yet, no reason to think they''ll do her any harm now. Unless she''s seen in our company, of course."


    Harold seemed to take his meaning. "Please stay safe, Dorothy," he said to her, a strange look in his kind eyes as if he genuinely cared. "I will stop by again as soon as I can. Please leave as soon as you are able. Or pack your things and await our return. But keep your head down."


    "I will," she promised, smirking to herself as she heard the words repeated in her late husband''s voice.


    "Right, then." Harold straightened. "Let''s get back to town. Best we don''t attract anymore undue attention. Joyto lend us luck and Ilma stay your weaving," he invoked as they left.


    When the armed men had faded into the treeline, Dorothy felt very alone and very exposed. It was almost like she missed Harold''s company, even though he was a stranger. But he seemed a nice enough man, reminding her of Gordon, and she wished now wished she''d gone with him.


    Dread settled onto her old shoulders. The rate Dorothy was going she was going to end up dead in the middle of a war.


    Emphasis on the dead. All for the sake of a scrawny little goblin.


    Dorothy sighed. She''d already made her choice. She decided she best go and shoo two of the three unwanted goblins out of her home.

 12. Leaving

    12. Leaving


    When Dorothy stepped into her kitchen, she was surprised to find all three goblins sat in a circle: two supping from bowls of venison soup, while the larger goblin, who loomed over the other two like a huge man over a child, stared sadly down at a raw deer haunch.


    "Thought I told you to hide," she said to Gob disagreeably, but all three of them turned.


    "Manlings gone," said the herald lightly. "Thank you for your help, womanling!"


    "I''m going to need you--all of you--to leave," Dorothy angrily demanded.


    Gob met the words with a confused smile.


    "Soon," said the herald. "First, we eating. Then, we speaking. Then, we leaving."


    "I''ve nothin'' to say to you," Dorothy countered. "And you can eat on the road. You''ve got your goblin back and that''s all you wanted. Now you can leave me be."


    "Taruk changes his mind," the herald explained. "Womanling must leave. There is no longer any room for manlings in these forests. If he permits you, then others will stay."


    "Gob stay?" Gob then asked.


    The herald smiled kindly at him as if he were a fool. "Great Chief Taruk no longer cares if you return to the clan. The womanling can keep you, or you can come back with us."


    "Gob stay," Gob happily repeated.


    "No." Dorothy''s voice and face were grim. "You go with your kind now, Gob. I''m leaving. Off to live with the manlings. No more clan. Get gone. Don''t come back."


    Gob cocked his head. "Gob stay."


    "No!" Dorothy stomped over to grab her iron pan. "You go! Gob goes!"


    Gob''s green features lapsed into sadness. "I stay... pleasing? Pleasing, Chief Dot? Go hunt?" he hopefully suggested.


    "Gob," said the herald, reaching over and touching his knee. "You come to clan. Follow us. Do this. Must do this," he sternly added.


    "No, no." Gob scrabbled back to the kitchen counter, rapidly shaking his head. "Gob go hunt!" he screeched. "Pleasing, Dot! Pleasing!"


    Dorothy stood staring at him, one hand wrapped idly around her heavy pan. "No," she said again. "Gob go home. Back to clan."


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    "We clan!" Gob insisted.


    "No we ain''t. And we never was. You were never welcome here. And I was never a Chief. I''m just an old woman who don''t belong. And you don''t belong neither. But that don''t mean we''re stuck together for the rest of our days. See this--" She brandished the pan. "I''ll see to you like I did the other, if you don''t run along. Crack open your head."


    "Smash?" Tugg then idly asked, lifting the deer haunch up to his vacant eyes as if it were some mystery.


    "No," said the herald. "I think we will eat on the road. Come along--"


    "No need," Dorothy cut in. "I''m leaving. You can all stay here as long as you like."


    "Gob stays?" Gob hopefully asked. "Oh. No. Gob follows!"


    "Don''t follow me!" she snarled, venom creeping into her words now. "Leave me be, you foolish runt! We ain''t no clan!"


    "Tugg," the herald then put in. "Grab the little goblin. Do that."


    Tugg stared between the herald, and Gob, who were both quite short.


    "Not me," the herald clarified.


    "Oh. Do that--" He struggled up, reaching for Gob, who made a dash for the window. With a rattle of the shutters and a scrabble of wood, the scrawny goblin was gone.


    The herald shrugged his slight shoulders. "Well... at least the noise can stop. Sit," he instructed of Tugg. "Eat. Then we will leave."


    Tugg murmured something in answer, but Dorothy was already walking past them, marching to the sitting room.


    She grabbed her sack of things, wrapped a cloak round her bony old shoulders, and then thundered out of her front door. She wasn''t sure where she was going, or whether she''d been too cruel or not cruel enough, but she surely couldn''t be looking after a goblin for the rest of her days. Soon enough she''d be so old she wouldn''t be able to take care of herself. So maybe it was all for the best that she was having to leave her home in the middle of the forest. Even if the folk in town didn''t much like her, they''d make for better company than a pack of goblins. And be far less liable to eat her as well. She probably had enough coin to buy that dead man''s home, so she''d have a roof over her head, though not much more money left for food.


    Dorothy hoisted up her sack, the weight already starting to make her neck ache. She cursed under her breath, and wished she''d never opened her door to those goblins.


    Things could have stayed as they were. Simple. She could have just carried on until the day when her body gave out. Could have stayed in her home, that she knew, and died in the same place as Gordon. Instead she was going to have to go to folk she barely knew and barely liked with her tail between her legs begging for shelter and food. No doubt Moira and Young Gil had already told them all about Dorothy''s fight with the goblins, and they''d all have plenty of snide questions and sly remarks to make by the time she arrived.


    "Moira," Dorothy muttered to herself disagreeably. "Shouldn''t have been so nice to her," she decided aloud, now annoyed with herself that the two of them had enjoyed an evening together. "Moira," she said again in an altogether different tone. Dorothy remembered that Moira''s house would be abandoned now. The other woman had packed light, so there must be everything Dorothy would need to survive still left at the place. It had been built just as remote, but was far enough away from here that she might never hear from Great Chief Taruk or his clan again.


    "That''s it, then," she said to herself. "Don''t need to start over. Won''t have gossips or goblins botherin'' me for the winters I have left."


    She adjusted the sack on her shoulder, and headed towards Moira''s place. Not paying much mind to the setting sun, or to the distant, doleful howling of a pack of wolves.

 13. Alone

    13. Alone


    Dorothy had tried to use Gordon''s unstrung bow as a crutch, but the wood was too pliable and she ended up slipping all over again.


    Then she scrabbled around and eventually found a branch thick enough and straight enough to bear her wait without breaking.


    But by the time she''d found a proper rhythm with her now awkward and painful gait, the sun was disappearing into the horizon, leaving the world around her in a hazy, chilly gloom.


    Dorothy shivered, struggling over to the safety of a broad tree trunk and setting down her things. She checked her pack, swearing at herself, when she realized she''d forgot to bring anything that might help her start a fire.


    She''d left all of her gear for woodcraft and survival in the other sack. It was going to be a very long, cold, and dark night.


    Taking out the blanket, she wrapped herself tight and prayed to the Eleven Elders she wasn''t going freeze to death. She began to feel uncomfortably warm now she tucked the cloak and cover around her, which was a promising sign at least. Good thing she hadn''t been this thoughtless in winter or she would be well and truly dead.


    "Stupid woman," she muttered to herself. "Gob, fetch me a candle. Gob, fetch me a torch. Gob, light me a fire," she rattled off in self mockery.


    She was bone tired, so she closed her eyes and tried to sleep. But her thoughts, angry and regretful, kept coming back to her shouting at the goblin in the kitchen.


    She''d been harsh to Gob, but she couldn''t see any other way to get rid of him. She''d already tried to be soft, and he''d latched onto her and not wanted to let go. It was best for him that she finally did get rid of him, even if the little monster didn''t understand it for a while.


    Dorothy wondered then if she''d ever see the scrawny goblin again. Or if he''d get gobbled up by his kin because he had nowhere else to go.


    Maybe one day she''d come back to her home and he''d still be waiting there, keeping himself alive on a hearty diet of owls.


    It was hardly Dorothy''s fault anyhow.


    Maybe she could have reached some sort of arrangement with the goblin, offering him shelter in exchange for food, if Great Chief Taruk hadn''t gotten involved.


    Surely a goblin like that had better things to do than harass an old woman for taking in a stray.


    She would have thought starting a war with the manlings would keep him busy enough. But instead he''d been wasting his time coming to threaten an old woman and demand a goblin that would''ve already been dead and eaten if she''d not intervened.


    She thought about that kind soldier she''d met, Harold, and how the towering goblin was likely going to hack him and his men to pieces.


    What a terrible thing was war.


    The Midderlands was huge, and the goblins didn''t take up much room living in the wild as they did. Surely there was plenty of room for Taruk''s tribe without there needing to be a slaughter.


    A keen howling sounded out then, worrying close, and cold crept down Dorothy''s back despite many layers. The wolf that answered the call was far closer still. As was the third.


    Dorothy''s blood froze. Her heart began to thump. She was torn between reaching for a weapon, just in case, and between staying as still as she possibly could.


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    Long moments passed. She waited, keeping quiet as can be.


    The scrabbling of paws in the distance made her chest tighten.


    Snuffing sounded out to her right.


    All around her came the sounds of wolves, from the darkness of shadowed trees.


    Dorothy''s heart thundered. She tried to pull one hand loose from her cloak and blankets, reaching into her pack and grasping the cold handle of her iron pan.


    The wolf pack was travelling around her, and she didn''t want to attract undue attention, but she also needed to be able to defend herself.


    The snuffing grew closer.


    Gently pulling out the pan, something had been caught inside, which then rattled around, causing Dorothy to panic and strike a tree trunk, sounding out with a hollow thunk.


    The wolves growled in answer.


    ***


    Dorothy stood with her back to the stolid trunk, pan in one hand, bow in the other.


    The night had grown black, and her breaths had grown ragged. She stood atop her bundled blankets, lashing out with the pan and bow every now and then while wolves, three or four by the sounds of all the growling, snarled and snapped at her.


    She could faintly see their eyes in the darkness, shining with moonlight, or their great fangs glistening with drool.


    Like as not, she grimly understood, there was no fighting them off. Even holding them at bay had been tiring, and they could have lunged in and took her to the ground if they''d really wanted. The wolves were just waiting for her to get tired so they could take her for even easier prey.


    Dorothy didn''t even bring a knife, despite her admonishing herself for forgetting the last time, so she couldn''t even cut her own throat.


    It was gonna be a long and messy way to leave the waking life, being gnawed and chewed to death to the chorus of hungry wolves.


    A wolf snapped forward then, snarling and growling, setting great jaws around the bow.


    Scared of losing one of her weapons, Dorothy held tight, but then the wolf pulled back with strong haunches, setting her off balance, sending her stumbling forward, where her shoes were tangled in the blanket and she tumbled over, tangled in a bundle of fabric.


    Dorothy''s dread panic left her frozen and overwhelmed. She couldn''t do anything other than wait for the first bite to sink into her skin.


    Teeth came in on her shoulder, muffled by her heavy cloak.


    The wolf bit down harder, and forefangs nipped into her skin.


    Then a jaw closed around her ankle, the pain bright and vivid and sharp like lightning, puncturing deep through her skin and scraping up against bone.


    Agony fueling her, she scrabbled forward, held back by the wolves, and then desperately threw herself over.


    Swinging out, the iron pan struck resoundingly now it crashed into a wolf''s head.


    Then a strange snarling answered that, followed by an awful yelping scream.


    Desperate growling followed, amid panicked snapping. An awful chorus of wolves yowling in pain and fear began amid the rending of fresh and the patter of blood.


    Dorothy had struggled up, nearly bowled over as a wolf tumbled past, tangled up with a smaller foe.


    Dorothy was already lashing out with anger at the wolf, gladdened when she realized the beast was snarling and snatching at a goblin.


    The great wolf thrashed and snapped, while the goblin chewed and scratched and Dorothy hammered it over the head with her pan. It eventually ceased, and two more wolves howled their grief while they set set off running into the darkness.


    "Careful," Gob reprimanded, helping her to her feet. "Not good fall. Hurting. Yes? Yes!"


    The words sounded familiar, and she wondered if they''d had this same conversation in the kitchen. But her ears began to ring at a crystalline pitch and the world, already dark, grew darker still.

 14. Guest of Honour

    14. Guest of Honour


    Dorothy was beyond glad when she woke to the familiar scents and comfort of her own bed. She''d had an awful dream where a wolf had nearly tore her ankle off. Though when she moved her leg slightly, awful pain issues from her foot, and she understood it hadn''t been a dream at all. Which made her being in her own bedroom all the more confusing. The pack had been attacked by something. "Oh," she murmured. "Gob."


    "Hm?" a voice murmured. "Oh. Chief!"


    Dorothy turned to find the scrawny goblin''s wild face creased into a wide smile. He sat in an old rocking chair, where Dorothy had used to nurse her son. "What--" Her throat was awful dry, and speaking just a few words badly hurt.


    She was just about to tell the goblin off for being in her room, but the pause had made her thought better of that. He had saved her from being eaten by a pack of wolves afterall, and, judging by the many scrapes and aches rousing around her body, had managed to drag her back to her home as well.


    "Dot live!" Gob happily declared.


    A banging sounded out beyond the room. Booming commands were issued. Squeaking replies came in answer. Then Dorothy''s ears keened to myriad other noises of chatter and clatter, as if there were some greating gathering taking place in and around the house.


    "What''s happening out there?" Dorothy asked, pushing upright in her bed.


    "Taruk," Gob answered, his happy tone and smile faltering. "Feast. Is strange."


    "Oh..." Dorothy wasn''t sure what to make of that. If the Great Chief was here to cut her head off at least that would be a lot quicker than the wolves. Besides, she''d accrued so many wounds over the past few days that she''d almost welcome a swift end to her life. "Thank you, Gob," she said with all the earnestness she could muster. "You saved me."


    "Gob does save," he proudly agreed. "Great fighting. Scratch scratch, bite bite. Gob mighty!"


    "Mighty Gob," Dorothy agreed.


    "Mighty Dot, also. You hit. Helping." His mirth faltered once more, and he looked almost fearful. "Chief Dot," he began very carefully. "Gob stay...? Mighty Gob stay?"


    Dorothy let out a shaky sigh. "Yes. Gob stay."


    "Gob stay?" he asked, eyes narrowed as if in slight disbelief.


    "Gob stays."


    "Dot stays, also?" he ventured. "Us clan?"


    Dorothy scowled, her eyes sore and her head starting to throb. Her heart skipped a bit on a sudden, making her breathing feel strange. "Us clan," she reluctantly agreed.


    "Us clan!" Gob happily declared.


    "Least until Taruk kills us," she realized aloud.


    Gob blinked. "What meaning, Dot?"


    "Never you mind," she dismissed. "Come on. Fetch me a drink, and then help me out of bed. Then we can see what the Great Chief wants."


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    ***


    Dorothy''s tried her best to wash some dirt off her face, and out from her armpits, before putting on a fresh dress. She didn''t often wear dresses, certainly not flowery white dresses like she was a picture of innocent youth, but then she''d packed away all the clothes she''d liked and Gob, quite reasonably, hadn''t managed to drag them and an old woman back at the same time.


    When she stepped into the kitchen, she got some strange looks. Whether that was because of the dress or because they''d not expected a manling, or womaningly, to step out the door she couldn''t quite tell.


    Gob followed in step beside her. The kitchen lay both vacant and crowded. The stools had all been moved, but there were half a dozen goblins milling about. None of them particularly tall or stocky, and all of them carrying ingredients around while an elderly goblin, wearing a tattered cloak and carrying a gnarled staff, stood over the boiling pot, as if they were all part of a team trying to put together a great meal.


    The cloaked goblin turned, his nose long and hooked and his eyes dark and deeply set. "Womanling. Survivor," he bitterly greeted. "Both better dead."


    "Shut yer mouth," Dorothy snapped. "Or I''ll smack you round the head and chuck you in the pot."


    The goblin blinked, taken aback, then scowled. "We will see who ends this night in a pot, womanling."


    More bellowing commands echoed from beyond the open kitchen door, and Dorothy recognised the proud speaker as Great Chief Taruk.


    When she stepped forward, descending the broken stairs, she found him towering above a great gathering of goblins.


    Stools, chairs, and even the couch from the sitting room had been arrayed around the forest clearing.


    Every piece of furnishing, save for those of her bedroom had been arrayed along the dirt path, while what must have been nearly five score goblins sat about in half a dozen circles or semi-circles, each gathered around their own campfire.


    Between the many groups, stood the table where her and Moira had drank and sat the night before.


    Five seats arrayed around it, each currently empty.


    Great Chief Taruk, his bronze shield still slung over his shoulder, bared his fangs when he spotted the old woman. He strode over, making short work of the long dirt road. "Womanling."


    "Taruk," Dorothy replied. "Come to kill me?"


    "Kill?" he asked, almost in humour. Then his sky blue eyes narrowed. "Oh... no. You sheltered my goblins. Protected them from the manlings. I owe you a debt, womanling."


    Dorothy had been wondering how they''d managed to get the cushioned couch from her sitting room, and realized they''d hack apart one of her walls to drag it out. "So you meant to pay me back by smashing my home?" she reasoned.


    "A feast," Taruk explained. "To celebrate our victory. The wall can be easily repaired."


    Dorothy''s heart sank. She worried that Harold and his men had already been slain. "I missed a battle?"


    "No battle," Taruk said. "The manlings have accepted my demands. There will be no need for slaughter."


    Dorothy frowned. The warriors she''d met had specifically said they were part of a scouting force, and that they were preparing for war. "They sent a messenger?" she guessed.


    "Yes," he answered with a nod. He bent to one knee, regarding her quite closely for a long moment. "You are disappointed, womanling. Did you wish for me to die...?"


    The old woman stared back at the towering goblin as he watched her with a mocking smile. "Surprised, is all," she dismissed, trying to quell her unease.


    If the Jarl of the Midderlands was setting out to deceive the Great Chief then surely it wasn''t her place to be interfering.


    Taruk had threatened to kill her, after all. He''d changed his mind now out of happenstance alone. Had those goblins not needed her help then he''d be coming back here to force her out of her home instead.


    She didn''t owe the goblin anything.


    "What''ll you do now, then?" she asked.


    Great Chief Taruk straightened to his great height, and rolled his neck. "I must speak with all the other Chiefs. Reach accords. Once peace is agreed for all then we can make things safer. Better. Then Gob and those like him will not need to seek shelter from old womanlings." He chuckled quietly, and Dorothy was surprised to find the sound comforting. "We will speak more of this. For now, take a seat. You are the Guest of Honour, Chief Dot," he added with a playful reverence, and she couldn''t tell if he were teasing her or offering genuine respect.

 15. Unsettled

    15. Unsettled


    Dorothy had been seated amidst the scores of noisy goblins, who were now slurping and chomping and gibbering all around her.


    She sat opposite Great Chief Taruk, his broad shoulders and muscular frame mostly well above the table, as she towered over her even when sitting on a sturdy chair. Tugg sat her left, cross legged on a pile of broken wood, because his seat had swiftly snapped, whilst the herald, his wounds scabbed over and quickly healing, sat to her right, perched on one of the kitchen stools. He had lost the feathered cap he wore before, and his ears were large and conical like a bats, twitching this way and that.


    The sun had begun to set, and the air had grown cold, so Dorothy began to feel cold in her summery dress. But the warmth of surrounding campfires drifted back and forth, keeping her comfortable enough with the fickle waves of heat. The air stank of bitter smoke, and earthy sweat. The goblins didn''t stink in the way that men did, but instead had the scent of animals. It reminded Dorothy of her visits to a farm many winters ago.


    "Here," hissed the cloaked hook-nosed goblin from the kitchen, who Dorothy had come to learn was the clan''s shaman. "For you."


    She thought it strange that Great Chief Taruk and his seemingly closest kin had yet to be served, while the rest of their clan feasted all around her. Stranger still, that of those four yet to eat, she was the first to be served.


    Great Chief Taruk watched her, his small fangs protruding past his upturned lips. "Eat," he gently suggested. "You are safe. We are all safe."


    "Wouldn''t be so sure about that."


    Taruk shook his head. "You are under my safeguard, womanling. I was foolish before. I let my anger for other manlings blind me. I never had cause to mistreat you."


    "Dot hides," said Tugg to her left, his eyes still level with hers despite him sitting on the ground. Dorothy found the comment odd, because the bulky goblin seemed to rarely speak, and because she was surprised he knew her name. Or Gob''s name for her, at least. "Tugg protects."


    "See," Taruk added with a surprised smirk, "you are under many safeguards."


    "I won''t protect you," said the messenger to her right. "Small goblins need to look after themselves. Taruk and Tugg can protect us both."


    Three more goblins, mostly small and skinny, emerged with three more steaming bowls, setting two ahead of Taruk and the messenger whilst the third was placed in Tugg''s lap. From what Dorothy could tell, they were all eating the same thing: a stringy soup full of a strange mix of barely edible herbs, assorted vegetables, and scraps of many different kinds of meat.


    She found herself quite hungry, but soon worried she was about to eat some goblin less fortunate than Gob.


    The Great Chief supped from his bowl without hesitation, setting it down to laugh at some whispered joke from his messenger.


    "You''re very pleased with yerself," Dorothy then said to Taruk. "Surprised you''d be happy with peace. After all the manlings done."


    Taruk''s expression turned grave. He eventually nodded. "You speak harsh truths. But I cannot turn back the moon. Ugg is dead. Many others with him. How many manlings could we kill? All those in the Midderlands? And then...?"


    Dorothy didn''t have an answer to that.


    The Great Chief let out a regretful sigh. "Then more manlings come. And more. And yet more. How many lives can I bare to lose? How many can I bare to take? So... yes," he finished, more happily. "I am indeed pleased. For myself. For the clan. For all our kin."


    Dorothy had never met a leader before. Not a Jarl, or even a small lord. She''d had harsh words for local officials often enough, but she''d never spoken with the sort of person who decided what wars were fought and who lived or died. And now, speaking with the Great Chief, she felt guilt. Guilty for how reasonable this monster seemed. And how he didn''t even realize his peace wasn''t worth the paper it was written on. "I--"


    "Dot!" Gob stood next to her chair, grabbing at her dress. "Chief Dot! Come, quick--"


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    "Gob," Dorothy snapped, pulling his grimy hand off the white cloth. "Be quiet."


    "Importance!" he countered. "Dot--"


    "Gob," Taruk cut in, his voice hard like iron. "Be quiet. Do that."


    Gob''s dark eyes were wide and pleading, but his lips stayed firmly sealed. He sighed to himself, and scampered off towards the house.


    Dorothy watched the scrawny goblin go, not sure if she should chase after him. Or what she would even say might even say next.


    "Chief Dot," Taruk then said. "What were you going to say?"


    "Why are you callin'' me that?" Dorothy demanded, her cheeks flushing with sudden anger. "Mockin'' me?"


    The Great Chief sat back, frowning as if in contemplation. "It is not mockery," he eventually answered. "You are a Chief. Of a very small clan. But I have seen worse Chiefs. Better, of course. How would you have me name you?"


    "Doesn''t matter, does it?" Dorothy asked as answer. "Not like we''ll be seeing each other again after this. Call me Dot. Chief Dot. Womanling. Do as you like."


    "I see you too carry anger," Taruk replied, almost sadly. "But this is what I wished to speak of. I would ask you to join our clan. As Chief. Serving the Great Chief."


    Dorothy sat frowning up at the towering goblin.


    "You will be safe," Taruk added. "You can teach things to the younglings that we have forgotten. We can craft you a home in the manling fashion. Gob will remain in your clan. I will keep you close at hand so that no misunderstandings occur. So that neither of you are mistaken for... food. If you find other goblins who wish to serve you, then they can do so as well."


    Dorothy''s frown deepended. "That some sort of bad joke?


    "I do not joke," the Great Chief assured. "I do not mock. You are wise, Chief Dot. Like a shaman. You survive out here despite lack of strength or speed. I will gladly welcome you to my clan. In truth, I much prefer the food you prepared to our shaman''s as well."


    "Don''t need yer pity or yer help," Dorothy snapped.


    Taruk''s lips twisted in displeasure. "We all need help. Goblin and manling alike."


    "Not me," Dorothy insisted. "I don''t need noone. I had a husband, and I had a life. Now I''m fine on me own. Don''t need to start over."


    "Chief--"


    "I ain''t no Chief! I saved one goblin, one night, on a mad whim. I don''t care what happens to him, or to you. And I won''t care when the manlings get here and cut you down to size."


    Taruk glanced away from her, discomfited for the first time since they''d met. "The manlings are not coming. These are goblin lands now. Stay here if you wish. Or leave to be with other manlings. I did not mean to provoke you, womanling. I thought my offer was a... kindness."


    "They ain''t your lands, Taruk," Dorothy angrily went on. "Ain''t mine, neither. The manlings''lll never let you lay claim to what they see as theirs. That letter you got is a lie. There''s more men on the way. A whole army. And they''re all coming here for you. To cut you and your kin to pieces. So thank you for yer kindness, oh Great Chief," she mocked. "But soon enough everything will be back how it was. And you and your clan will be too busy trying to save themselves to worry about an old woman like me."


    Taruk sat up very straight, coughing slightly, and regarded Dorothy with a mix of confusion and rage. She felt afeared by his wrath, but felt guilt for the hurt she saw in his blue eyes as well.


    Dorothy didn''t know why she''d been so harsh with him. Or why his offer, which was indeed a kindness by any standard, had so enraged her. People had taken pity on her, her whole life as if that was some great favour. But it wasn''t. Because them pitying her at all was the worst kind of insult to begin with.


    The messenger leaned forward, regarding them both, as if worried by her dire predictions, and as if waiting for the Great Chief to speak on the matter.


    Great Chief Taruk cleared his throat. "Woman--" He beat one fist against his chest, and coughed again. "Womanling. If you speak the truth then--" He coughed more forcefully, beginning a fit as if food were lodged in his throat. "Water," he demanded in a strangled tone. "Sapo," he said to the messenger, more desperately now. "Bring--"


    The messenger set off running, shouting for the shaman, who was watching from the top of the kitchen steps.


    Taruk choked in earnest, making awful strangled noises now he desperate tried to slurp the broth from his soup. Then he spat the liquid out instead, and stared down at the bowl in anger.


    "You''ve been poisoned," Dorothy realized aloud.


    Taruk met the words with a trembling and furious gaze, and he reached for his masterwork axe. He pushed the table aside, weapon ready as if he meant to kill Dorothy. But then his right knee buckled, and he toppled to the dirt instead. Spluttering his last breaths and pawing at the earth, the Great Chief soon lay awful still and awful dead.


    The entire clan had risen to their feet, shocked to silence, and they all watched with a childlike mix of fear and hope waiting to see if their leader would rise.


    "Treachery!" hissed the shaman, now he hobbled amid the stunned onlookers. He stood over the great corpse of Tarek. "The womanling has poisoned Tarek!"

 16. Redressed

    16. Redressed


    Dorothy''s whole life she''d had people telling half truths and lies about her. Ever since she was a youngin folk had, had a burning desire to whisper behind her back and gossip at her expense. But never before had a lie been so boldfaced and put her at such great risk. She''d waited, as the shaman''s cruel slander carried through the surrounding goblins, for one of them to point out that the womanling hadn''t even cooked the meal. Hadn''t even been near the pot. And, if she had, why would the shaman not warn Great Chief Taruk about it to begin with. She waited for one of them to state the obvious fact that clearly the shaman must have poisoned him. He made the meal. He knew about herbs. He must have had a reason to try and assassinate their leader.


    Dorothy looked to the messenger, his gaze doubtful as he regarded the shaman, and she knew that he knew it wasn''t her. But he said nothing. Tugg still sat cross-legged, watching Dorothy, while he slowly placed his bowl on the table. She looked around for Gob but he was nowhere to be seen. Maybe that''s what he was trying to warn her about. Maybe he''d finally had enough of her foul moods and lack of patience and he''d ran off to go find some nicer old woman to live with. All the while, the shaman''s words were echoed, shifting from a question to a fact.


    "Womanling poisoned Taruk? Womanling poisoned Taruk!"


    There was a part of Dorothy that had no fight left in her. She''d gone her whole life not standing up for herself as she''d liked, but this was different. This wasn''t the sharp tongue of a bored woman, or the wandering hands of a lecherous man. This was a horde of goblins who thought she''d just murdered their powerful leader not by strength but by cowardice. It wasn''t even life or death. It was how badly was she going to die.


    "That''s a lie!" Dorothy shouted, the words coming out weaker than she hoped. "Trickery!" she declared, remembering the words the other goblins had used against her that first night she''d saved Gob. "Shaman poisons Tarek! Shaman makes food! Shaman poisons Tarek!"


    The cloaked shaman bared his teeth in a cruel smirk. "Manling trickery. Womanling trickery. Trust shaman. Eat womanling!"


    "Then I challenge you!" Dorothy roared. "I challenge the shaman. Womanling challenges shaman!" she hastily corrected. "Chief to Chief!"


    The hook-nosed goblins cruel smirk faltered, but his eyes narrowed. Surely even as aged and frail as he was, he must have thought he could best a beaten up old woman.


    The gathered clans seemed confused by the contrary accusations, as if they couldn''t reconcile what a lie was. And were happy to go along with any order or explanation.


    "Shaman says--" the cloaked goblin began.


    "Chief to Chief," Tugg''s deep voice rumbled through the clan. "Is not. Shaman to Shaman. Is this. Do that."


    "Great Chief Tugg has spoken," declared the messenger, his high voice carrying loudly and proudly. "Womanling Shaman fights Great Shaman Grom!"


    Great Chief Tugg, ascending to his leadership without question, had bent down to pick up Taruk''s masterwork axe. When he rose to his full height, there was a twinkle of mischief amidst his squared features and dark eyes. And he offered Dorothy the faintest of smiles. She wondered for a fleeting moment if the simple brute had been the poisoner, after all. But then the goblins around her began to make space, a circle of open ground forming between her and the cloaked shaman, and Dorothy''s focus soon shifted to how exactly she was going to survive.


    ***


    Dorothy didn''t own many weapons. She''d inherited blades and bows from her husband, of course. But she''d left those things tucked away in a trunk with old clothes and old memories.


    The bow she did take with her had been kept on the mantle of the fireplace, and hadn''t availed her much for walking or for fighting.


    So she chose, for her duel against the lying shaman, to wield the iron pan. It seemed fitting to her that if things were going to end. Then they may aswell end as they began.


    With an old woman trying to beat a goblin senseless with something almost as old and battered as her.


    She''d lived a long life. That was what she thought before. A good life. These things were still true. She only wondered what this part of her life could be called. It wasn''t how she envisioned ending her days. She''d always thought her heart would give out one night like her father and mother before her. She wondered what her husband would think, what her son would think, or even her grandchild who she''d never even met. Would the youngin cheer her on? ''Smack that goblin, grandma!''


    Or would she regret ever meeting the mad old woman from the woods. Would her son fear for her or shake his head in shame. Would Gordon be proud of his wife for standing up for herself or be upset she''d stuck her neck out so far for a goblin of all things. But then that was how all this happened, she realised. There was noone here to witness her fighting. Noone here to cheer from the sidelines of this strange goblin duel. She''d not had anyone to support her in so long she''d almost forgotten what it felt like at all. And she found herself searching the ferile, bony faces of the raucous crowd for the familiar wild eyes of Gob. He would''ve cheered her on if he was here, surely. ''Chief Dot! Fight! Fight!''


    Gob was right that she''d never lost a duel. And Dorothy was an old woman. She might still make habits but she was too old to break them. She could only hope that her winning streak was just beginning.


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    "Shamans ready?" called the messenger, standing on Tugg''s shoulder. They both stood to the left of the crowd. The scores of other spectators had given them a wide berth, along with half a dozen other fearsome looking goblins who Dorothy guessed were once Taruk''s Chiefs.


    Great Shaman Gom, as the herald had called him, stepped forward into the ring of clear ground. He took the cloak from his hunched frame, his green build wiry and scarred. He then stepped forth, a rag covering his hips, both hands wrapped around his gnarled staff. "Ready!"


    Dorothy swallowed, her throat unduly dry. She gripped tighter to her pan, which shifted in her sweaty grip. Beads of moisture trickled from her brow and into her eyes, making her sight even worse than usual. "Ready!" she managed to shout.


    Gorm stalked forward, his stride much more confident, and his muscles rippling with the movement. He was far swifter and stronger than Dorothy had imagined.


    He moved to her right, and she stepped to the left, both facing one another and circling. The slight smirk on the shaman''s ugly face grew broader as he approached.


    Dorothy took a few careful steps back. Gorm ran forward, swinging broadly, setting her so far off balance that she nearly twisted her wounded ankle. Dorothy bit down on a scream, limping away from the shaman. She was already getting bone tired and if the pain in her leg got any worse she wouldn''t be able to stand let alone walk.


    Dorothy turned to face the shaman, both hands on her pan. He slowed as well, standing just out of reach.


    "When do you fight, womanling? " he mocked.


    The gathered crowd offered scattered laughter but more grunted as if in displeasure or confusion.


    "Come and get me," Dorothy suggested, hoping he''d rush in and give her some opportunity to strike.


    Gorm stepped forward, bringing down a mighty overhead swing, and Dorothy realized his reach was far greater than hers even despite her slight advantage in height. She tried to step back again, twisting her ankle, and cried out in earnest.


    The shaman bared his fanged teeth, and his gaze grew keen and vicious. He swung again, left to right, in a broad strike.


    Dorothy had no choice but to try and block it. Wood struck iron with a great and resonant clang, the vibration near sending the handle straight out of her hands.


    She just about held her footing, as well as her grip, and answered with a reckless swing that the shaman easily jumped back from.


    Gorm hissed laughter.


    ''Well this is going well,'' Dorothy thought. "Brikorhaan lend me your shield," she invoked, praying to the Eleven Elders for the first time in as long as she could remember. "Joyto gift me your Luck. Ilma stay your weaving. Muradoon close your Eye. Hreath bless the land where I''m soon to bury this wretch," she finished which she came up with all on her own, as folk rarely had cause to beseech the God of Farming in a duel.


    "Be quiet!" Gorm snarled. "Face your death in silence. Your curses will not help you, womanling. You will end this day in a pot just as I seered."


    "My pot. My pan. My land. Won''t be seerin'' once I put you in the ground."


    "Fight!" Tugg boomed from afar.


    Gorm hadn''t been riled by her words like Dorothy hoped, but he did glance around nervously when the new Great Chief''s demand was echoed by an increasingly angry chorus.


    The shaman lunged, staff leading, but Dorothy parried the blow with her pan. The force drove her off to the left while the goblin wheeled to the right, both coming to face one another on opposite sites. Dorothy lunged, hoping to sweep out the shaman''s knee but her ankle twisted again with a pain that robbed her of her senses.


    Next she knew she was face down in the ground, huffing in dirt. She started to choke, pushing herself upright, now the shaman jeered above her.


    Head lifted on elbows, she tried to rise but a great weight of wood slammed down into Dorothy''s spine, ripping the air from her lungs and smashing her head into the earth.


    Gritting her bloody teeth, Dorothy forced herself to roll, narrowly avoiding a second strike that then thumped into the mud. She hurled her pan at the shaman, which span wildly in the air, clipping the goblin''s brow with the handle to leave a nasty gash. Gorm staggered back while Dorothy snatched out for his staff, trying to rip it from the stunned goblin''s grip. But his hands tightened around the shaft, and she dragged him towards her instead. The shaman stumbled forwards, tripping and landing on top of the old woman.


    Robbed of breath once more, Dorothy struggled under the goblin before he fully regained his senses. She found herself smiling at the thought of how folk had long been calling her forgetful. But this time, at least, she''d remembered something. Something important.


    The importance of always carrying a knife.


    Gorm struck a heavy blow into Dorothy''s brow, his bony hands breaking her skin, and then his fanged teeth snarled forth to savage her. But Dorothy had wrested free her concealed blade, which she sheathed once more in the shaman''s throat. Up through the neck and under the jaw with a teeth snapping, bone grating impact that stopped the goblin''s momentum short.


    His small dark eyes watched her with futile rage and fearful confusion, before she finally managed to shove the goblin to the side, where he spluttered black blood out on the earth.


    "Womanling Shaman wins!" the messenger declared, his words clearly surprised.


    A confused murmur rippled through the crowd around her, and Dorothy wondered if she might still die. But then the words of Great Chief Tugg boomed through the air.


    "Gorm poisoned Taruk," Tugg announced. "Womanling Shaman avenges! Womanling is new clan Shaman!"


    Dorothy had only just about got to her unsteady feet, and was still struggling to catch her breath. She saw a few hopeful smiles among the goblins, which was reassuring, but then a war horn sounded out from the forests surrounding her home, sending fear and bemusement rippling through the gathered clan.

 17. Voiceless

    17. Voiceless


    "Gob," commanded Great Chief Taruk. "Be quiet. Do that."


    Gob stared up at Chief Dot, and she scowled back, her old womanling face scrunched in the usual way.


    The goblin wanted to speak, needed to speak, but he could not. It was difficult for any goblin not to listen to their Chief. Though Gob was very good at ignoring them for being so small. But when Taruk spoke his words ruled over all. Gob tried to force his mouth open but there was no use. He needed to find another way to stop the manlings.


    Gob ran to tell the shaman, who was busy in the kitchen pouring black powder into a bowl, but the command was so strong that Gob couldn''t speak at all. He hoped it wouldn''t last too long. Once before, Taruk had told Gob to wait and he had stood still for over two nights.


    He scampered down the stairs where Chief Dot had won her duel, then headed towards the trees where he''d seen the manlings. They were carrying string sticks and covered in dried hides.


    Sneaking around like they were as small as Gob.


    Gob had wanted to warn Chief Dot. Or the others. But now he could not do that. He needed to be Mighty Gob instead.


    Gob scampered swiftly across the dirt and grass, soon reaching the trees. His ears twitched as he listened for the manlings, hearing rustling leaves, creaking branches, and then the distinct snap of a twig. The rumble of manling laughter could be heard as well.


    Gob crept in that direction. He leapt back on instinct, nearly getting clear, but the hard ropes of a net clipped his legs, flipping Gob upside down. Gob tried to land on his forepaws, but a heavy boot sent him flying through the air.


    Struggling for breath, Gob pawed at the earth, trying to escape, but the same net now landed on him in whole. He tried to crawl out from under it but the ropes were tightened and he was lifted up, lurching from side to side.


    "Told you," said a manling.


    "How can you tell it''s the same one?" another manling asked.


    "Just can. Trust me. You fought goblins as long as I have, you''d be able to tell ''em apart as well."


    Gob wanted to screech out for mercy or help but Taruk''s command was unyielding. He tried to scratch through the ropes, biting through others. Gob''s world shifted now the manling hurled the him into a tree.


    ***


    Gob woke to confusion. And pain. Which was more confusing. Most bumps and cuts didn''t bother the goblin at all. Chief Dot talked about aches and pains a lot. Fear trickled in, and Gob worried he might be very badly hurt.


    Gob''s eyes were working though. The moon had come out to glow, and a manling fire was burning in the distance.


    The stink of other goblins close by reached Gob''s nose, and he tried to run on instinct, crashing against the confines of hard metal.


    Gob felt a strange feeling. He''d only ever felt it once before when the others had tried to eat him. But Chief Dot had saved him then.


    It was like fear but worse. He did not have a name for it.


    He had been closed in a metal box, stacked on top and around many others boxes, of different shapes and sizes, where many other goblins had also been trapped.


    Gob felt surprised by how silent his kin were. And he wondered if Taruk had told them to be quiet as well.


    But then looking more closely Gob saw the cuts and bruises and swollen skin. And the strange emptiness to their eyes. And he wondered if they had been feeling the worse-than-fear longer than Gob.


    Gob had heard stories long ago. That the manlings snatched small goblins like him. To sell and trade like furs and bones. But he thought they were just stories. Like manlings cleaning water with fire. Or sticking bristles in their flat teeth.


    The scrawny goblin felt around the gaps in the metal of his box, looking for a side that might open like the wooden boxes Chief Dot had.


    But the roof was very low and the sides not very wide, and he started to thrash and scratch and panic, scraping and rasping against metal, causing his box to clatter against others.


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    This bothered his kin who copied Gob and they all began to make an awful screeching, scrabbling chorus of goblins trapped in boxes.


    "Oi!" shouted a manling, followed by a thunderous clanging of metal on metal. He was striking the cages with a heavy club, causing a terrible sound that made the boxes shake. "Be quiet. Next one of you makes a noise is going to end up dead."


    Gob had never been the best at listening. And been less best at speaking. But he thought as good as he could. Other goblins were less thinking and hearing and speaking than him. One of them, a big block headed goblin, shouted out in complaint.


    The manling went to his box, which did indeed have a side that opened.


    Gob closed his eyes, his worse-than-fear growing, now the manling bludgeoned the other goblin to death.


    Not seeing, and trying not to listen to the wet crunching sounds, Gob wanted to speak and wanted not to speak all at once.


    He hoped Chief Dot would be here soon. She was a womanling and could speak with the manlings. Tell them that Gob should be free.


    Or, Gob thought, maybe Chief Taruk could come and kill the manlings instead. Then all the goblins could be free. And all the manlings could be dead. And this satisfied another new feeling that the scrawny goblin felt. The worse-than-rage.


    ***


    Gob eyes opened to a shortlived wave of screeching. He had not slept, he did not think. But then he had not been thinking.


    This had happened once before when Great Chief Taruk was only Chief Taruk. And he had come and bitten off Chief Gromb''s head.


    Chief Gromb had been a Chief of kindness. Gob was happy to listen to his commands even though he could''ve ignored them.


    Gob tried to avenge him, and Taruk could have killed Gob, but instead he had commanded him to stay and stare at headless Gorm.


    Many other goblins had come to watch and laugh and poke Gob stuck still as he was, and then Shaman Gorm had said that Gob was cursed and all the other goblins left him alone.


    Until the moon shone so bright that Gorm said Gob needed to be sacrificed. Or else Great Chief Taruk and his whole clan would suffer.


    Gob did not believe Shaman Gorm. But now, trapped in a box with many other goblins of the clan, he wondered if the Shaman had seered the truth.


    Though Gob did not know how his dying or surviving could bring about such badness.


    More boxes had been added, stacked above and all around, so all Gob could see were overlapped walls of metal.


    But by sound and smell, many of Taruk''s clan had been boxed as well. The worse than fear began to grow again, and Gob wished to sleep. Or to stop thinking.


    Gob had always feared dying. But being in a metal box, strangely, felt worse.


    Gob wondered if Taruk''s command still kept him silent, but found he did not even want to speak.


    Gob had always wanted to run, and jump and hunt. Now he wanted to lie flat like a dead hopper.


    "Not sure what you want to see them for," a manling voice was saying, that Gob almost knew. "But they''re over here."


    The boxed goblins began to squirm and squeak and rattle the metal.


    "Gods above," said a womanling, and her voice Gob did know. "Worse than killing ''em, ain''t it?"


    "It''s good coin," the manling said back, though his words had lost strength. "Better this than be eaten by their own kind. We only take the weaklings. They''re surprisingly good for labour, or even hunting. Better than hounds, ''cause hounds can''t climb trees. Besides, you''re the one who said you wanted to buy one."


    "Said I might," Chief Dot answered, her words angry as they ever were, and, Gob thought, ever would be. "Can''t see them all."


    "They''re all the same. You buying one or not? I''m doing you a favour letting you look at all. And keeping it quiet, besides. What''s an old woman want a goblin for anyhow?"


    "For climbing trees," Chief Dot answered.


    The manling laughed. But it was the quiet, strange sort of laugh that meant a manling was not happy but angry or some other feeling instead.


    Gob''s lips would not move. He had been desperately trying to scream out, or screech, or cry, but he was making no noise at all. He tried to scratch at his bars, to make some other noise, but deep in the boxes as he was, it didn''t rise above the unhappy chorus of his kin.


    "Well...?" the manling asked. "I ain''t got all day, woman."


    "If you''ve got somewhere to be then off ye go."


    He laughed again. This laugh was a doubting laugh. "Don''t think I''ll be leaving you alone here. Take your pick or stop wasting my time."


    "Gob...?" Dorothy asked of the boxed goblins. "Gob?" she nearly shouted.


    "They ain''t going to answer you by name," the manling replied. "Right. Come away, then. Go and enjoy your celebration. If you still want to buy one before we leave then I''ll have one picked for you in the morning. You can call him whatever you like."


    Dorothy made her usual grumbling sound.


    ''Help!'' Gob tried to scream. ''Pleasing, Chief Dot! Gob here! Gob here! Gob here!'' But Taruk''s command was so strong that, even with it fading, Gob could only whisper his own name.

 18. Heroine of Old

    18. Heroine of Old


    Dorothy watched, war horns blaring through the air alongside hissing arrows, as Great Chief Tugg and his clan scattered like a flock of flightless birds into the distant treeline. One archer found his mark, striking Tugg in the upper shoulder, which caused the bulky goblin to stagger and drop Taruk''s axe.


    She looked down on Great Shaman Gorm, whose harsh gaze was now glossy and lifeless, while the black blood pulsing from his neck had begun to ebb. She noticed a fresh root underfoot, where the shaman looked to have tripped. Joyto''s Luck, she thought. Or maybe Hreath the Plowhand really had been listening.


    A surge of righteous pride surged through her, basking in her victory and defiance, but then that wave of vicious elation gave way to fear and grief.


    "Mind your aim!" a familiar voice was shouting. "Don''t give chase into the trees!"


    Dorothy searched all around her, seeing goblins big and small fleeing for their lives, or brought down and bleeding from their wounds. And she was deeply worried what had happened to Gob. She''d thought he''d come to warn her of the poison, but what if Gob had spotted the manling army instead. What if he''d been forced to go back and try and stop them some other way when Taruk demanded he be quiet.


    There had been genuine fear in the scrawny goblin''s wild eyes.


    It was strange to Dot that the goblin, who had always desperately wanted to speak, had been so readily brought to silence.


    "Dorothy." A hand rested gently on her shoulder, and she realized this wasn''t the first time her name had been called. "It''s me, Harold. You''ve got a few cuts and bruises, but I think you''re all right. I think it''s best if I take you back to our camp, and have you seen to by a healer. Don''t worry," he then added. "I''ll make sure noone claims your reward."


    Harold looked to have been hit in the head with a rock. The right side of his head was sheeted with blood. But he was smiling and looked steady on his feet. He spat now blood trickled onto his lips. And smeared the rest through his stubbled beard. "Dorothy...?" he pressed.


    "Reward?" she eventually asked.


    "For Taruk. The Jarl''s offered gold to the weight of his head. And," he added, glancing over at the giant corpse of the once Great Chief, "looks like that''s quite heavy indeed."


    ***


    "Do you remember me?" Harold asked, leaning forward on a cushioned stool.


    They sat in a makeshift tent, of tattered hide and thick branches, while around them men and women were stitching wounds and seeing to other injuries. Though it didn''t seem as though the army had been particularly battered in the fighting. Likely this war would go a lot quicker and a lot simpler than any of them were expecting.


    "O'' course," Dorothy answered. "I''m not the one whose been hit in the head."


    Harold weakly smiled. His brow had stopped bleeding, but his now pale face was still half coated in blood. "From the other day?" he then asked.


    "O'' course," Dorothy repeated with less patience. "Don''t listen to Moira. I ain''t lost me mind."


    "We''ve not met before then...?" Harold asked.


    Dorothy narrowed her eyes, because the man asked the question as if they had indeed met before. She studied his face, which was wrinkling with age, but not nearly as wrinkled as her own. And his eyes, and his kind smile, which almost reminded her of her husband''s. "How should I know? You clearly seem to think so."


    "Hah," he awkwardly replied. "I was born round here. Been gone for a while though. That was why I signed up for the fighting. Wanted to check on my mother."


    "Oh," Dorothy asked. "''nd who''s that?"


    Harold opened his mouth as if to speak, but then cocked his head and said, "Moira."


    "Oh... right. Well, sorry if I don''t remember you. Hard to keep track with how many she managed to put out. And I ain''t spoke to her in winters. Well, there was the other night, but--"


    "It''s fine," Harold assured, placing a hand on her own to stay her.


    Dorothy crossed her arms, pulling them out of reach. "Why''d you ask?"


    "Curious. I was friends with..."


    "Robert?"


    "No," he said with a shake of his head. "Your other son."


    Dorothy scowled. "No wonder I don''t remember you, then. Only had one son. Think you''re mixing me up with some other old woman."


    Harold met the words with a smile, that might have been sad or surprised, then he took a deep breath and cleared his throat. "Must be. My apologies, then."


    "That why you were so set on me coming with you the other day?"


    He slowly nodded, looking off at a groaning man now, who had been bitten in the thigh by what must have been a very hungry goblin. "Partly. But, I was genuinely worried for your safety. Apparently, it was Great Chief Taruk I needed to worry for. And his shaman, as well. I don''t think folk will quite believe what happened out here. But as I say, I will make sure you get your reward. You deserve that much, at least. I dread to think how many men it would have taken to bring that monstrous thing down otherwise."


    "He weren''t that monstrous."


    "He was nearly eight feet tall, and corded with muscles. His axe and shield are old dwarven relics. He could have easily killed a score men on his own. Leading his clan, he might well have overwhelmed our entire army."


    "Well... no, I mean," Dorothy began, but then couldn''t remember what her point was to begin with. "My memory ain''t that bad, anyway," she decided to add. "I do remember you, come to mention it. Seen you in town once or twice back when you were a youngun. Hanging around with Robert and some other lads. Looks like it''s you who''s having trouble remembering," she mocked.


    "Hm." Harold offered the slightest nod, but then he squinted as if dust, or dried blood, had got in his eyes. "That rock did strike me with some force." He took in a deep breath, and sighed. "I know a money man who you can speak to. He''ll make sure you''re not robbed or swindled after you get the gold. I can find someone to buy that axe, as well," he said, glancing at her belt.


    Dorothy had picked up Great Chief Taruk''s axe, though she couldn''t quite figure out why. The metal was terribly dense and heavy, and the blade was very sharp. It was quite shiny too, which she did appreciate. She supposed that part of her didn''t want one of the soldiers to take it and wield Taruk''s weapon without ever slaying him.


    "I''d happily buy it myself," Harold added.


    "Look at you," chided Dorothy. "Here I thought you cared for my good health, and you''re just trying to buy my axe."


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    "I do care," Harold assured. "But... surely you have no use for it? And you''ve got that necklace for a memento."


    Dorothy remembered the string around her neck. She''d forgotten that she''d grabbed his bird bone pendant as well. If Tugg hadn''t ran off with it, maybe she''d be lugging around the shield too.


    "What''s funny?" Harold asked.


    "Thinking strange things to meself," Dorothy answered. "And thank ye," she added. "I appreciate you carin''. Rare thing these days. If a less scrupulous man happened upon me, I imagine the story of what happened might come out not nearly as straight."


    Harold offered a genuine smile, and it reminded her of when she was younger and she''d said something Gordon had liked. They looked so much alike she half wondered if Gordon''s hands had been wandering as far as Eustace''s. And then a terrible thought crossed her mind, briefly, but the thought was so terrible that she shut it away as soon as she conjured it up.


    "I''ll accompany you until you get the coin and you''re settled," Harold suggested. "So long as you don''t mind."


    "For a fee, I suppose?"


    "For free," he answered.


    "I''ll pay ye," said Dorothy. "Don''t have much use for a golden head."


    "They''ll pay you in coins," Harold explained.


    "Was a jest, Harold."


    "Oh," he tiredly said. "Oh." He laughed. "My head is starting to ache. I might have to go and have a lie down."


    "Best you rest," Dorothy agreed.


    The bloodied man, brushed his hands together, like Gordon used to do, before pushing up to his feet. "I''ll--"


    Screeching sounded out, one or two goblins at first, that then grew into an awful chorus. "We under attack?" Dorothy worried.


    "Oh, no," Harold dismissed, shaking his head. "The scouts like to capture the weak ones. There''s a trade for it, you know. Mostly in Vendrick, but some other places as well. They sell them to vendors at Highhill. Strange business, I think. But..." He tiredly strugged. "Puts a roof over their heads, I suppose. Saves them dying after we slay the Chiefs. And the scout''s pay isn''t the best despite them being in the most danger. Seems unfair not to let them make coin where they can."


    Dorothy stared up at the tall man, her heart beating quicker and quicker.


    "You disapprove?"


    "I''d like to buy one," she decided.


    "Oh..." he said. "Oh," he repeated, and started to laugh, but he trailed off when he saw she was earnest. "Very well," he conceded. "I''ll show you in--"


    "Now," Dorothy insisted. "If you please."


    ***


    "Gob...?" Dorothy asked of the caged goblins. "Gob?" she nearly shouted. Scores of cages were stacked ahead of her. She could see a third of their faces through the slotted metal, but her eyes weren''t good enough to recognise Gob unless she walked right up close, and the scout, Earl, was already losing his patience.


    "They ain''t going to answer you by name," Earl mocked. "Right. Come away, then," he added with less patience. "Go and enjoy your celebration. If you still want to buy one before we leave, then I''ll have one picked for you in the morning. You can call him whatever you like."


    Dorothy scowled at the scout, but he met her anger with an easy smile. She took one last look at the goblins, surprisingly subdued and quiet now, but she couldn''t spot Gob. She worried he was further in the back, stacked under other goblins, but surely he''d have heard her and surely he''d have shouted out. She was about to give up, when she truly saw all the other caged creatures. The one''s she was trying to look past. Saw how broken and desperate they all were. Trapped and alone. "How much for them all?" she suddenly asked.


    Earl had brought out his arm to usher her away, but now he stopped and frowned. "What was that?"


    "How much does it cost for me to buy all of ''em. I''m due some gold, aren''t I? Surely enough to buy this sorry lot."


    "Well," Earl began, unsure of himself for the first time since they met, "yes. I suppose you''re right. Tally ''em all up and they ain''t worth much in the way of gold coins, but--"


    "But what?" Dorothy snapped.


    "But, well--"


    "Well?"


    "Well I can''t sell you them all, can I?" Earl angrily replied. "Only reason I was gonna sell you one is ''cause Harold asked. One thing letting a mad old lady do what she wants with one scrawny goblin. Or if a bunch of captured goblins go missing. But I ain''t about to hand over a whole clan of goblins, am I? Folk would find out, and then I''d end up with my head on the block."


    "Don''t be stupid," Dorothy countered. "You''re selling ''em, either way. And you want the best price, surely. I''ll give you all the gold I get, how''s that?"


    "No," he answered firmly. His eyes narrowed and he looked at her now like she were some sort of dangerous animal. "I ain''t sellin'' you none," he decided. "We clear? Don''t want to see you hanging around here again, old woman. Harold might have taken a shine to you, but this is my business. Not yours. And I ain''t about to let you set dozens of goblins loose after all the work me and mine put into capturing them. Now get lost before I let other folk know the mad things you''ve been asking."


    Dorothy''s hand rested on the cool metal of Taruk''s axe.


    "Don''t make me hurt you," Earl warned.


    Dorothy wasn''t afraid, despite the murderous look in the young man''s eyes, but she didn''t really want to hurt him either. "You worry too much. But, all right. I''ll leave you to your goblins."


    "Hm." Earl offered the slightest of nods, relaxing when she raised her hand to her waist. "Right this way, then."


    ***


    Dorothy had been led to Harold''s tent, which wasn''t large but wasn''t small neither. She''d been waiting for a while, much longer than she''d hoped, and eventually her impatience got the better of her. She ducked low, and bent under the flap, only to find the tall man lying silently in his bed.


    "Up yer get," she said. "You''ve got a speech to give or somethin''."


    She hobbled over, her ankle giving her a great deal of grief, and tried to shake him by the shoulder. But when she saw him close up, she knew it was no good. Her heart sank, and grief welled. It was a small grief at first, but by the faint light and the angle of his face, he really did look so familiar. And then the small grief bloomed into something enormous and overwhelming, making so much pressure inside of her belly and throat that she thought she might explode. But instead she began to weep, and cry like she hadn''t done since she was a little girl. And she shook, racked by her own sobs, until all the bones of her already bruised body began to ache.


    Dorothy got a hold of herself, shaking over that sudden terrible grief, and silently reprimanded herself. She''d not even shed a tear for her husband. So she didn''t need to lose her mind over a man she''d met once or twice. Maybe that was all it was. Maybe she should have cried back then, and at dozens of other times, and all the sorrow of her long sad life had finally caught up with her. But then she remembered the last time she''d cried, far worse than she had just now, and she saw her Robert lying just as still and pale in a dimly lit room.


    He''d died. Of course, he''d died. That was she hadn''t seen him for so terribly long. He''d left behind that pregnant widow. But then, Dorothy thought frowning to herself, who''d written that letter after Gordon passed that had got her so worked up? And how had she ever forgotten that her son had died long before her husband?


    Dorothy swallowed, shaking her head, her eyes run dry of tears as panic and grief and wretched bemusement swirled around in her now viciously aching skull. "I''m all turned around," she hissed to herself, her voice nearly unrecognisable with how dry and choked the words came out. "Confused," she added. "I''m misremembering. It''s been a long day. A long season. I--"


    She took a seat, desperately trying to master a violent urge to vomit.


    Taking slow and deep breaths, she managed to calm herself and regain her bearings. But now she wasn''t sure what she wanted to do next. Not sure where to go.


    Harold was going to help her fetch the gold, and she never even cared about that to begin with. But without the coin coul she really go back to her own life. And without Harold could she get away with not being robbed or killed for a sack of gold. Fear began to set in again, and her heart beat like a scared rabbit''s.


    "Ow," she hissed, now Taruk''s sharp axe grazed against her skin. "Bastard," she said, not sure if she were speaking of the axe, the Great Chief, or that smarmy little scout.


    Or maybe even of herself.


    "I''ll show him who''s a crazy old woman," she then decided, marching out from the tent with the gleaming axe of a Great Chief wrapped tightly in grip. "I''ll show everyone just how mad I can be."

 Epilogue

    Epilogue


    "Crash went the axe!" Moira declared, waving her arms out ahead of her. The bejewelled sleeves of her flowing dress twinkled with the light of all the candles arrayed around the rustic tavern, those same flames reflected in the many entranced gazes that were set upon her as she sat up on a slightly raised stage. "Crash, crash, crash!" she added, swinging down as if with some invisible weapon. "Finally, the lock broke. Snapping under the great weight of Great Chief Taruk''s dwarven axe. And the door to the largest cage groaned open. The big, fat, goblin looming over Mad Old Dora now he stepped forward. And she swallowed, worried she''d set forth a beast that was soon to eat her."


    "''Help me,'' she demanded in her angry little voice. ''Do that. Free the others.'' And whether the goblin was grateful, or just terribly stupid, he heeded the old woman''s command. And soon enough the pair of them were making a great and awful racket. Hurling cages and smashing locks. More and more of the wretched creatures being set free, some even staying to help, while the rest scampered off into the darkness."


    "What about the guards?" a man suddenly asked. "Surely someone heard her?"


    "The scout must be keeping watch," agreed a young woman, who Moira thought was far too pretty.


    "Joyto was playing tricks that day," Moira easily answered. "Travelling musicians had arrived, and the ale and wine and mead had flowed so quickly into the hands of the soldiers, who hadn''t had to tire themselves out wielding their swords, that they were causing a great ruckus of their own. The scout was too busy looking for a young woman to worry about an old--a mad old one!"


    "What happened then?" asked a third speaker, amidst the now bustling crowd, his disagreeable tone clearly aimed at those who had interrupted.


    "Then?" Moira asked her most performative voice. "Then Mad Old Dora''s hands got tired. Her fingers bled. Her elbows ached. All the muscles in her tired old frame screamed, and as they set loose goblin after goblin she began to wonder what it was she was even doing. How she''d ended up in the middle of a Great Chief''s war and why, by all Eleven Elders, was she now trying to set Taruk''s clan free. And she realized it wasn''t about vengeance, or her own grievances, or any selfish thing that we might otherwise ascribe to a bitter woman like that. It was, of course, about..." she trailed off, spreading her hands as if to invite an answer.


    "Gob!" a man screamed. "Gob," echoed others.


    "Exactly," Moira agreed with a beatific smile. "A woman who had lost her family, and nearly all of her mind, had only one thing left to her. That scrawny, foolish little goblin who chose Mad Old Dora as his Chief. And--" she added loudly, cutting over what would have been yet more interruptions. "Did she find him, you all rush to ask? And dark as it was, and so bad were her eyes, would she even recognise him if he did?"


    "Why wouldn''t he call out?" the same pretty, annoying woman asked.


    "He''d been gagged, of course," Moira dismissed, heat rising to her cheeks. Noone had asked her why Gob hadn''t bothered to call out before. "Noisy little creature that he was, always screaming for ''Chief Dot'', they''d had no choice. So--" She continued, noisily clearing her throat. "Mad Old Dora had all but given up hope. When she heard the faintest whisper -- for you see, Gob had managed to spit out some of the rag that muffled him -- saying, ''Dot. Chief Dot. Help, help,'' she mimicked plaintively. ''Pleasing.''"


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    "Then Mad Old Dora, who was a hard old woman who never smiled a day in her life, felt her lips creasing upwards in a most unfamiliar way. ''Gob,'' she said, breathlessly and thankfully. Her voice, usually tired, even more tired and haggard than that. Like the sound of tree bark scraping--"


    "We get it," cut in a man.


    Moira scowled. "Very well," she haughtily answered. "Then the Gob and Mad Old Dora--or Chief Dot as he called her--were reunited once more, both overjoyed and blissfully happy. The end."


    "What do you mean?" demanded the young woman again. And Moira wondered to herself if this is how Dorothy had seen her. As some overly pretty, overly talkative, insufferable cow.


    "I mean the story has ended," Moira explained at length.


    "Yes," the young woman agreed, her sharp eyes narrowed to slits. "But what happened next?"


    "Oh," Moira said. There''d been so many people chiming in, she''d forgotten the last bit. "Well that depends who you ask, of course," she explained, falling back into her storytelling tone. "Some say the guards caught them before they ever left the camp, even drunk as they were. Others say the goblins, grateful for the help, had a hunger that outstripped their gratitude, and Mad Old Dora ended her days in the stomach of those she chose to save. And, of course, there are those that think Chief Dot led those goblins into the forests and made her own clan. But I like to think, even mad and old and foolish as she was, that Dora and Gob made their way to my old home out in the wilderness, and they live in peace and harmony, keeping to themselves."


    "Well, which is it?" the same young cow demanded. "Surely you know the ending to your own story...?"


    "Her story," Moira countered. "Dorothy''s story. As I''ve said, we were friends once. If you''re that bothered go out into the forests yourself and go and find her. I certainly won''t mind if you run afoul of some hungry goblin."


    "It''s the last one," shouted a man from the tavern''s counter. "No, wait, the second to last one. I got picked up by her clan just the other day, and she let me go."


    "You saw her?" Moira asked.


    "Heard an old woman''s voice."


    "Not much difference between a goblin''s voice and an old woman''s if Moira''s painfully overdone description is anything to go by," declared the young cow.


    Moira sniffed, shaking her head, wishing she had her own goblin to sick onto the woman. She wondered if Dorothy really still was out there. It was true enough that the goblins, who had been captured, had been freed amid the feasting. She''d only started telling folk she knew all about Chief Dot, or Mad Old Dora, for attention at first. Then she''d managed to convince people to pay her, and had to add more and more layers onto the tale. Now she was even making a good living, and travelling bards had come to ask her the details as well. She supposed she hoped that Dorothy was still out there in the end. Despite the disagreements between them, they''d been true friends once. And Moira found she missed her. Maybe that was why she kept telling her tale, so that she could feel like they were still close. And there was always the fact that if Chief Dot, or even Great Chief Dot, was still out there, that Dorothy''s story would grow even larger still.


    THE END