Tears of the Ancient and Other Stories



  Tears of the Ancient

  And Other Stories

  By Jason R. Koivu

  Copyright  2016 Jason R. Koivu

  All Rights Reserved

  ISBN 978-0-9910411-4-5

  Published by C Street

  Contents

  Grag the Third

  The Last Siren

  The Misguided Spear

  Mr. John M. Paulson

  Laugh Potion #1

  Tears of the Ancient

  I like you. Do you know why? Because you’re about to read my book! That’s very cool of you. Seriously, I really appreciate it when someone takes the time to read something I’ve written.

  Go ahead and file this collection of short stories under fantasy. You’ll find mystical spirits, a demon or two, treasure hunters, a pervy troll, a mad-capped mushroom cap, a goblin’s diary and a travel article. Yep, a fantasy travel article. Some of these lean towards comedy, while others are serious. One of them gets a bit punny and for that I apologize. Whatever mood these tales leave you in, I hope you find them enjoyable.

  Oh, one other thing. The titular story is about some characters I’m developing a fantasy series around. At least one of them will appear in the first book and we’ll see about the rest later. I’m pretty excited about it!

  Thanks for reading,

  Jason

  GRAG THE THIRD

  Having finished his account of the reconnaissance mission to the Desolate Uplands and the subsequent skirmish with what were being called the Green Beast tribesmen, Captain Bellard handed a roll of loose parchment pieces to Marshal Rames, Commandant of the North Wing Outpost.

  “Lastly sir, these were recovered from one of the savages. They’re copied in a fair hand and not written in goblin. Stolen would be my guess, sir.”

  “No doubt,” said the Commandant skimming over a few lines written upon calfskin. The more he read, the more consumed he became by what he read. The descending silence and the crimson streaking across his commanding officer’s razor-sharp cheekbones rattled Bellard and he began to babble.

  “I thought they might be important. Otherwise I wouldn’t have bothered bringing them to your attention. I hope--”

  The Commandant was too absorbed in reading to mind his subordinate any more than to catch his general sentiment.

  “Did you read these yourself?”

  “Well, no, sir. Only enough to see what language they were in, sir.” On the verge of breaking out in a sweat, Bellard watched the marshal hurriedly roll up the pieces of parchment and jab one end of them at his heart. Though well away on the other side of an enormous desk, Bellard winced and caught his breath as if having taken the blow.

  “You have no information as to what is written herein?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Very well, very well.” The roll was laid aside with the mound of other papers awaiting the Commandant’s attention. Displeasure drew down the man’s naturally sour expression further and Bellard was happy to finally be dismissed. Once the captain was gone, Rames went to the door and told his secretary that he must not be disturbed. He then went back to his desk and took the roll of parchment in hand once again. After sorting out the individual pieces until he was sure he had them in the right order, he sat down by the fire and began reading.

  “Remove your hands from my Willy,” I told him, but he yanked and yanked at it and just wouldn’t keep his hands off my weasel!

  Sorry to cut that anecdote short, but time is of the essence and I realize I haven’t explained who I am or why I’m writing. It will have to be brief and quick as possible.

  My name is Grag Grag Grag, son of Grag Grag. I prefer to be called Greg. It’s more human sounding. I explained this quite clearly to my clanmates and they told me to shut my face. I tried getting them to at least call me Grag the Third and that didn’t go over well either. Instead, they started calling me Grag the Turd. To be honest, it’s about as clever a thing as the stupid clods ever came up with.

  Anyhow, I am hoping through these writings that I might showcase my better self and the level of sophistication I’ve obtained to whatever humans we come in contact with, so they might look beyond who I am and not judge me for my green and warty skin, claw-like fingernails, flappy feet and ears, phallicly long nose or my terrible posture. As you see, I have acquired the ability to write a decent prose, not to mention my superb diction. I’ve also been working on an epic poem investigating my feelings and emotions on loneliness, love and what it’s like to be a sensitive goblin, which I’m happy to share with you now…

  Damn and double damn! I just discovered Ogbar wiped his backside with my poem! It would take too long now to transcribe it all again from memory, for I must continue on with my tale.

  Of late I have become a veritable genius among goblins, due to what I call a brain helmet. It’s a helmet made of some kind of metal with lumpy bumps all over it, sort of like a brain, which I’ve seen plenty of due to my cohorts bashing skulls open on a regular basis.

  I found it after a raid on Kunegund after getting separated from the horde and wandering lost in the abandoned ruins of the city’s ancient quarter. I was scared and not wanting to be discovered by the humans during their counter attack, I delved deep into the wreckage, trying to find some hole to hide in.

  There I discovered what I thought to be an ordinary library. Of course, any library is extraordinary. What I mean is that I believe this one may have belonged to a wizard at one time. What I took for the occasional stick or branch I’d find therein was probably a wand or staff. It dawns on me now that I was perhaps handling or mishandling, items of great magic beyond my understanding. I tossed about scrolls containing strange writing and kicked smashed bottles of long-since dried and dispersed potions. But after I put on the helmet, I found I wanted to curl up with a good book and so I did just that. I dove into whatever books I could read and through them came to understand the ways of humans.

  My only companions were a skeleton, probably the remains of the wizard, and countless rats. The latter provided my daily meals at first. Though we goblins take them and weasels as pets, we’re not adverse to eating them, not in the least. Whenever I got peckish, I’d pluck up a juicy one and gnaw on it while I read philosophy, history, and fairytales. I learned about architecture, forms of government, exotic animals from around the world and dancing. Perhaps one day, dear readers, I can show you my two-step!

  Becoming smart was the best thing that ever happened to me. It was also the worst. After falling in love with human ways, I fell in love with a human.

  You see, after reading all those human books, I became intrigued, nay, enthralled with their culture and civilization. I needed to experience it for myself, so I cloaked my hideous features in a disguise as a leper and entered the city.

  The sights and smells were daunting. I cowered under the cathedrals and other huge buildings of a purpose which I had no clue. Fountains absolutely enchanted me. Drainage and gutters for sewerage struck me as highly inventive, and yet they seemed like the most common sense of ideas, so obvious that I couldn’t fathom why the goblins hadn’t thought of it. But above all, what impressed me the most were the baked goods. Oh, I could go for a loaf of bread right now! Ah, but that is not to be, not now. Will explain soon. Got to run!

  As I was saying, the city entranced me, all of it I could see. Unfortunately I could only see so much. I was barred from the markets and city center. No one wanted anything to do with a leper, no one but a nunnery that is. They wished to care for me, to heal my wounds and the like. So most of my time was spent in churches and, oh, one glorious cathedral. I was given a bed in the abbey’s infirmary and it was there that I me
t a young woman in training to be a nun. I’d never seen golden hair such as hers. More to my heart, she had kind, smiling eyes and was the first human to lay hands upon me.

  The only problem was, in their desire to heal me they wished to remove the various pieces of cloth I’d wrapped around my body like bandages. I kept from revealing my falsehood and identity as long as I could, but regrettably I had to leave the nuns and with nowhere else to stay, I returned to the ruins once more.

  The timing could not have been any worse. I walked right into the proverbial arms of my old despicable comrades. They’d come to raid the ruins once more, picking through the rubble and occasionally picking off stragglers. Some of the more unfortunate humans would make temporary homes in the ruins. Perhaps they were homeless or outcasts. Those that weren’t killed for food on the spot were taken back to the lair. They were made slaves or tortured for pleasure or both. All ended up dead one way or another. I’m sorry for being so depressingly blunt, but that’s what I was heading back into, a life I no longer felt a part of, a life not worth living. The funny thing about life though is how it can change in an instant. Soon I had a change of heart.

  Late one night I was awoken by a kick to the head, as usual, and told to go take over guard duty in the dungeons. The dungeons are a particularly dreadful place. Floors flooded with water and urine. Not an ounce of light, but maybe some smoky torch choking the air out of the place. Prisoners perpetually breaking free of their bonds or slipping from cells absentmindedly left unlocked. I tell you, our jailors make fence posts look sharp. So there’s bound to be some agitated peasant or disgruntled dwarf lurking around every corner waiting to decorate your head with a new lump and make an escape.

  With my superior brain, I evaded an elf ambush, got down into the dungeons without further incident and began my rounds. While bundling the elf back into his cell, I took notice of a young human woman chained to the wall by the door. With her goldish hair, she bore an uncanny resemblance to the nun who was kind to me back at the abbey. Though in retrospect I realize now her eyes aren’t nearly as kind, I grew excited thinking it might be her. I asked her what her name was. She refused to answer. In fact, her only answer was a bit unkind. After fruitless attempts to get her name, I decided to call her Spitty. Although we hadn’t gotten off to the best of starts, it was she who made me value life once more.

  After that, I took on more than my share of guard duty in the dungeons. At first I tried to talk with Spitty, but she was uncommunicative to say the least. In fact, I might’ve done well to name her Kicky. I resigned myself to staring at her through the barred window and daydreaming of the life we might have together. For a time that was enough, but sooner than later, I wanted more. A few nights after the elf had been barbequed and Spitty had the cell to herself, I crept inside with her. No one else was about, so I was free to do what I may. She gave me her usual wet welcome, but I would not be daunted.

  ‘Do what you may, it won’t stop me from giving you this,’ I said reaching into my britches and pulling out a bag of cookies. Oh, how I love cookies! They’re my absolute favorite human invention. The other goblins are not okay with that. The worst beating I ever received was for coming back from a raid with nothing but a sack filled with custard creams. I hid my obsession until I discovered I could get away with it if I told them I was eating, say, ladyfingers. Gingerbread men were acceptable too, as long as they thought they were made of real men.

  Anyhow, Spitty became much friendlier after we shared some chocolate chip cookies together. I wish I’d thought of it earlier. It might have given us more time to get to know one another before things came to a head. You see, that night a gang of drunken goblins shambled down to the dungeons and I could tell they had one thing on their minds. It was going to be the same old story and this time with the woman I loved, unless I did something about it.

  ‘Hey fellas,’ I said to them, ‘I had a thought. How about we don’t rape this one?’ And to my astonishment, they didn’t! Instead they raped me. It’s all right, I’m used to it. You don’t live long amongst goblins as nasty as these without getting your bunghole buggered.

  However, I didn’t know how much longer I could protect her, nor how much longer I wanted to put up with these cretins. Something had to change. I decided to take a chance and came up with a plan. We would escape together!

  Spitty didn’t trust me and it took longer than I expected to convince her that I wasn’t trying to trick her. First we needed to disguise her hair and human features. I couldn’t just give her my things, I looked quite human myself in my cape, blouse and rakish fedora. I was still in need of pants that fit my style, but I digress.

  I decided we would have to put her ensemble together on the go. Before leaving the dungeons I had her dirty up her face as much as possible. Then I took us down a back tunnel, a dead-end essentially, because it leads to another tribe’s lair. The dolts call themselves the Long Knife Clan, because they don’t know the word for sword. Same as in my clan, who don’t know the word for helmet, but do know “shield,” so they call a helmet a “head shield”. This is what I’m dealing with. Idiots!

  Along the way we picked up the odd scrap of discarded goblin’s clothes, like a tunic Spitty pulled over her dress and a patch of cloth she wore to cover her hair. Then we turned away from the dead end, because those in the rival clan were as likely to kill us on sight as shake our hands. This was just a less traveled detour where we might not be discovered while disguising ourselves. From here we took the backstairs, which would take us close to a possible exit topside.

  The only trouble I foresaw with this plan was Goosh Goosh, a yellow slime creature that looks like the contents of your stomach after purging a gluttonous binge upon rotten squash, jellyfish, slugs or maybe I’m thinking of hairless caterpillars, a whole lot of swamp water and someone else’s vomit, probably an ogre’s. Goosh Goosh acts as a sort of back door man, a rear exit guard. So what’s wrong with Goosh Goosh aside from his looks? He’ll dissolve the skin off you in seconds! Sometimes he wanders away from the back door for a bit and I hoped he wouldn’t be there now. We’d just barely made it to the top of the stairs when we heard, “Goosh! Goosh!” slurping from down the tunnel.

  It was time to think up a Plan B, which I did and real quick. I have found brains are better for thinking rather than bashing. So, it was back to the dungeon, back up the usual stairs and, I hoped, on to our next destination without being found out.

  Hope dissolved. The many feet flapping down the tunnel towards us told me a patrol was on the way and there was nowhere to hide. We might’ve run away from them back up the way we came, but fleeing goblins are suspicious goblins not to be trusted by goblins. Though a goblin can be duped, we’re a mistrustful lot on the whole. Comes from generation after generation doing one another over, I assume. I motioned to Spitty and we both pressed against the wall to let the six of them pass, only they didn’t.

  “What you doin’, Lady?” That was another one of their nicknames for me.

  “Nothing.”

  “Well do some fing!”

  “Who you,” the biggest of them asked Spitty.

  “That’s Grub,” I answered. I thought that rather clever, since she was quite grubby.

  “Didn’t ask you.” The big one grabbed up of fistful of my blouse at the chest and slapped my face back and forth. I’ve actually got cheek calluses because of the number of times I’ve been slapped.

  “Reegrog ask your name,” said squeaky-voiced Hikkuf as his slippery fingers reached to pull back the cloth shading Spitty’s face.

  “Grub,” she snarled and scratched at the fingers. It’s one of the few things she’s ever said and I cherish it, mainly because it got us out that jam. The patrol shoved us about a bit, but they eventually pushed us on our way and went in the opposite direction.

  “This way. Come along,” I said jogging up the tunnel with the stream running down the middle of it. This leads to the Great Water Cave, a massive cavern with a wide, shallow
pool of spring-fed water. We fell on our bellies and drank long before quenching our thirst.

  With my ear so close to the ground, I could hear a small group of goblins coming, so I urged Spitty to the back of the cave just as they entered. From behind a stalagmite…or is it -tite? I never remember which is which. It doesn’t matter. From behind one of those sticky uppy rocks I spied my friend Toohoo. Well, I call him friend, but really he’s just the guy in the clan least likely to do me bodily harm. I had to restrain myself from calling out, because his brother Woohoo was with him and it struck me that it would’ve been hilarious to wave and call out to him, Woohoo! from behind the rock. I doubt he would’ve understood the humor on that level, so we waited silently hidden until they left and then made our way deeper into the back of the cave, where I knew I’d find what I was looking for.

  Yellow-capped sleep mushrooms grow in a dwindling patch here. Inhaling the dust from their feathery undersides will knock you right out. I thought we could blow them into the faces of the guards or anyone who opposes us during our escape. I was afraid Aug the Ogre, who watches over our front door, wouldn’t allow us to leave the lair without bribing him. Knowing he’s got a soft spot for yellow things, I figured I’d bring him some of the yellow-caps. Even if Aug didn’t want them at least I might get a mushroom close enough to blow the dust into his face.

  Honestly, I don’t know why the goblins don’t use this stuff more often. They’re so afraid they’ll accidently sniff it and knock themselves out. Ridiculous. It just takes a bit of caution--

  Okay, that didn’t go as planned. As we were leaving the Great Water Cave, we were ambushed by Toohoo and his brother.

  “Har! Caught ya sneaking,” they shouted as they leapt from around a corner. It looked like we were done for, but they were just scaring us for the fun of it. All the same, they wouldn’t let us go and we needed to get rid of them, so I tried the mushroom dust and it worked like a charm!

  With freedom so close, we took off at a sprint and soon the way out was at hand, but so was Aug the Ogre. At first he seemed open to the idea of letting us pass in exchange for the yellow-caps.

  “Pee tree!” he exclaimed and joyously bounded towards me where I held up the mushrooms for him to see. Aug bounding is a bad thing. He’s too big for his one-room cave home as is, never mind jumping about while he has guests, so Spitty got squished against the wall. I thought she was dead, but it was worse! Her head-wrap got knocked off and her golden hair tumbled free. “Ooh,” Aug cooed as he wrapped his huge hands around her and held her to his chest. If the squishing didn’t kill her, the coddling might!

  “The mushrooms,” I implored, “what about the nice, yellow mushrooms? Did I mention they’re yellow?”

  “Shush!” he commanded, only I didn’t realize it was a command, so I kept on trying to get his attention and redirect his focus. I guess he got annoyed, because he grabbed me and began squeezing the life out of me, starting with the air from my lungs. He should’ve gone for my brains first, but they were in perfect working order, so I was able to think and I brought up the mushrooms to my lips. The air being squeezed out of me blew the dust into his face. Just as I passed out, I could see Aug passing out, too. Luckily, I came to first with a deep, life-restoring inhale, which sucked up the mushroom dust and knocked me out again.

  I woke up in the soup. Literally, Spitty and I were up to our necks in a large cauldron of soup. This was in the cook’s kitchen. It’s just an alcove really with some nooks dug into the wall for pots and jars and the like, and a narrow chimney to let out the smoke from the constant fire. That fire was heating up the cauldron, the broth and us real quick. Zegget the cook and a couple helpers were busily cutting up some roots and rats to toss in with us. If we didn’t do something soon, we were going to be dinner! With our hands and feet bound we couldn’t just jump out and run away, but I thought of something else that might work.

  “Rock,” I whispered. Spitty didn’t understand until I started moving back and forth. We weren’t making much of a difference until she threw her whole body into it and tipped the thing right over. Us and all the contents spilled out over the floor. The cook threw up his hands and wept and moaned. When he saw his help fall on all fours and lick up the broth like they were afraid it would go to waste, he snatched up a spoon and beat them over the heads with it.

  “The soup, you idiots! Save the damn soup!” he screamed in goblin and all three scraped at the floor with spoons, while we took a knife and cut ourselves free. I grabbed my writing implements, which were on the pile of wood ready for the fire, and then we were off!

  We raced away with cries warning of escaped prisoners being taken up and shouted down every tunnel. I might evade notice, but Spitty was completely undisguised.

  “In here,” I said guiding us down a side alley and hearing the flappy feet coming for us. We came upon a ledge and there was nowhere else to go. “Take my hand!” She wouldn’t, so I grabbed hers and leapt over the edge into the darkness. That’s how we ended up in the Shithole.

  Some wise goblin chief about ten or twenty chiefs back came up with the idea of designating one central cavern as the place where everyone was to relieve themselves or at least dump their dumps. This hole was particularly choice, because it was deep and the refuse just disappeared when you tossed it over the edge. It was nice. Some of the tunnels didn’t smell quite so shitty for a while, but then a tough goblin decided no one was going to tell him where to do his business, so he ate the face off the old chief and was made the new chief, and the people went back to shitting wherever they pleased.

  The good thing about that is that the Shithole doesn’t get many visitors anymore, so I was pretty sure we’d be safe and sound here for a while. Well, relatively safe. A wee fire-spout shot up from the mound, but it was a ways off, so I wasn’t worried. We’d been in worse danger. Lounging about waist-deep in the stuff, I took the opportunity to do some more writing and got this narrative caught up to this point.

  About an hour went by when we felt a rumbling from beneath and out of the pile of feces burst this globby tentacled creature with a toothy suctioning mouth. I don’t know what it was, so I’ll call it a crap-eater, because that’s what it was doing. Covered in the stuff as I was, it looked at me like I was a piece of shit and swam through the poo for me. It was on me before I could free myself. Just when I thought it was all over, the crap-eater shrieked and backed away with a knife stuck in its face area. Spitty had apparently brought the weapon along from the kitchen. The crap-eater reared back with the knife still stuck in it and dove backwards into the hole it had come from. Neither of us were sorry to see it disappear, nor were we sure it wouldn’t come back.

  I remembered there once was a passage towards the back of the Shithole before it filled up, so we dug – well, I dug while Spitty vomited – down and down until I found the planks blocking the passageway. I cleared away what muck I could, pulled back the planks and away we went!

  We were in a bit of a bind now though. We had few choices of which way to go and none were good. I tried a back passage that would bypass the main hall, but came up against a jammed door. It’s never fit well anyway, but now it must have swelled and lodged itself completely. On the one hand I was heartened, because the dust on the floor had built up considerably, which meant no one came this way anymore. I know I certainly didn’t. But on the other hand, we couldn’t get through. I pushed, I shoved, I rammed that door until my shoulder about fell off, but it wouldn’t budge. To my surprise, Spitty jumped in beside me and together we worked at that door shoulder to shoulder, skin against skin. It was the closest we’d ever been. I must admit, it weakened my knees and I doubt I pushed with half the strength I could’ve mustered, until she turned her face toward mine and I could see the sweat beading upon her forehead. The strain and her obvious desperation made me realize how much this meant to her. While I was hoping for a better life, she was fighting for life itself. It’s not that I hadn’t been taking this seriously, but now I threw
my whole being into it. Even if I didn’t make it, I would get this human woman out of here and back to her people. I slammed into the door with a manic enthusiasm. I wanted to break the thing into pieces. It was not to be. The damn door wouldn’t move. We had to give it up and think of a new plan.

  I thought long and hard this time, yet all I could come up with was something wild and unlikely to succeed. As things stood, we had no other choice. I bundled Spitty back into the Shithole, which took some convincing. There wasn’t much chance the crap-eater was coming back, but there was no getting rid of the stench.

  To her credit, she stayed put while I went off to find a barrel of wine. This would mean having to cross through the main hall. They were probably still out for my blood and the hall would be packed, but I hoped not to be recognized since the muck from the Shithole caked my face and soiled my blouse into something unrecognizable.

  When I got to the main hall it was absolutely packed. My luck sucks. Luckily, I didn’t have to rely on luck. I had my brain helmet to see me through! It was still lodged on good and tight, perhaps too tight. Something makes me think Aug the Ogre or one of the goblins might’ve crushed it in a bit out of anger while I was passed out, because it was squeezing my skull. Anyhow, I used my smarts and whipped off my blouse, then wrapped it around the helmet. Hundreds of my clanmates were there drinking themselves into a stupor, buggering one another or playing Stone Head, a game in which two goblins stand face to face and hit each other on top of the head until one of the two gets knocked out or dies. Usually one dies. I scurried through with my head down and made my way to the Drink Room.

  Zexxerkzen is the troll in charge of the wine and beer and whatever spirits the clan procures. He’s really possessive and will not give away his stock. I knew this going in. I also knew that he has a fetish for goblin tails. Just about everyone’s caught him doing nasty things with his so-called “rat tail”. After getting smarter, I figured out the cleverly entwined length of rope-like material wasn’t made of rats at all, but goblins!

  Disturbing, yes, but it’s not the only problem. It’s said that Zexxerkzen can’t see himself in mirrors, because he’s so ugly his reflection ran away. I’ve heard he’s too frightening even for haunted houses. My nobby-long nose is like a peanut compared to his, which looks like something that should be swinging between the legs of a horse. A friend claims his skin is the putrid color it is because his mother took one at her new baby and puked all over him. Stained his skin, it did, because she never bothered cleaning him up. Must’ve figured it was an improvement. Goblins hold a suspicion that he’s hideous enough to turn a soul to stone if he made a face at you, but my new upstairs gray matter tells me that’s probably not true. Only a gorgon like Medusa can turn flesh to stone. Oh and those disgusting bald cats!

  No matter. Disgusting as he is, I would have to brave the beast, as they say. Get in there, get a barrel of wine and get out. As expected, Zexxerkzen was not about to give up his goods for nothing.

  “Just one tiny barrel?” I pled and he bit off my eyebrows! Thankfully I backed away in time and that’s all his snapping jaws got ahold of. No big deal. I don’t use them for much anyway. I was more disturbed by getting slapped about by his schlongy nose.

  In the end I did what I knew I had to do. I gave up my tail. A quick twinge of pain and one of regret and it was done. I’ll admit it made me feel a little less goblin, but hey, that’s what I’m hoping for, isn’t it? Besides, it was worth it. Now I had my wine, which was needed to get me and Spitty out of this mess. Or is it, Spitty and I? One of the most difficult human things to understand is grammar…that and caravan timetables. Bloody wagons never arrive when they say they will.

  I rolled the wine barrel back through the main hall and it was like passing through a gauntlet of greedy devils’ hands, all grabbing for my goods.

  “Give it here!”

  “Hand it over!”

  “It’s empty,” I shouted above the tumult of their demands. That put off some of them, but before I made it all the way to the other side I was stopped by a whip-smart little fellow named Nebble, who stood in my way and slammed his heel against the barrel.

  “That’s not empty,” he shouted as he stumbled back. I rolled on and he eyed me while I passed. I could tell he recognized me. “Hey, it’s that traitor, Gr--” I yanked the club from the rope tied around his waist and bopped him on the head. That shut him up. But when I turned back I found hovering over the barrel a goblin big and strong enough to be chief if he only had the brains to realize it.

  “That mine!”

  “This is for the chief.” I tried to sound commanding. To add to the effect, I elbowed through the gathering crowd, and while he pondered what I’d said and the others watched to see what he’d do, I rolled the barrel out of the main hall.

  “That mine!” I heard him bellow, but he never came after me and nor did the others. After one final check over my shoulder, I pushed the barrel up the tunnel towards the chief’s den.

  “For the chief,” I muttered to the curious guard at the door and then scampered away before he could ask questions.

  “What, what’s this? I didn’t order wine!” came the chief’s blustering complaint a moment later. He complains about everything, good or bad. “No, no. Leave it, leave it!” And that was the last I heard from him before I was out of earshot.

  I went back and waited with Spitty. Without an hourglass I had to guess on when approximately two turns had passed, one for the chief and his wives and one for the guard at the door. You see it would take that fat, glutton of a chief and those with him about an hour to get stone drunk, and then once they were out, the guard would sneak in and drink up the remainder real fast. He’d be out in no time, too. Two hours would be plenty of time I assumed and I wasn’t wrong.

  Slipping into the room and tiptoeing around the unconscious bodies, I grabbed the slip of a robe off one of the wives. To be honest, they’re more like concubines. They don’t wear much, but I wished to give Spitty something new to put on, something a little less covered in feces. The chief’s seldom used belt would help her cinch it off nicely at the waist. More importantly I needed to get the chief’s crown and cloak. The cloak was simple. It was just an outer garment he only wore when it was cold and it was never cold in his den, so I found that covered in dust on a hook. The crown was trickier. He never failed to wear it. I crept up to him, careful not to step on anyone, and gently lifted the crown from his head, always watching his fat face to see that he didn’t wake up.

  “W-wah?” he sputtered and then snorted. One of his eyelids slid open and his eye rolled around like it was searching for something or someone. I held my breath and waited. I thought I was done for right then! But the lid slowly shut again.

  “Bow before Chief Ollekbag!” I shouted in my commanding voice again as I waddled down the tunnel towards the crowded main hall with the chief’s crown atop my head, his cloak billowing around me and bulging out in front. I scrunched up my face to look as grumpy as possible and lowered my head to my chest to make the best double chin I could. When I turned the corner, everyone in the hall had their heads down. Some were even prostrate upon the floor, of course they might’ve just been asleep or drunk. As I toddled and shuffled by them, some actually kissed my feet. I didn’t think I could make it. My legs were giving out and I thought maybe my heavy breathing would give me away, but now that I think about it, it probably sold the disguise. It didn’t dawn on me until now that our obese chief huffed and puffed when he walked.

  As soon as I got out of the main hall, my legs gave out and I fell to my knees. Spitty released her iron grip around my midsection and dropped from under the cloak with a light thump on the floor. She limped to her feet. Her arms and legs must’ve been spent from holding on to me that long. She looked wildly around, but seeing no goblins, her modestly returned and she straightened out the robe and covered herself once more, tightening the belt again and securing the club, Nebble’s club that is. I’d held on to it afte
r bopping him with it and afterwards gave it to Spitty. I think it made her feel safer to hold it.

  A wail of a screech from the main hall, an alarm I recognized as one of the chief’s wives, sent Spitty racing off up the tunnel for the front door without me. The very few torches lighting her way weren’t enough and she bounced off walls she couldn’t see and tripped over the uneven spots on the ground.

  “The spike pit,” I screamed in my head. “She’s going to fall into the spike pit!” I ran after her as fast as I could. Behind I heard dozens of flapping feet chasing us. There was no sense in keeping quiet now. I called out to her and I know she heard me, because she turned, but that only seemed to make her run faster. I finally caught hold of her just before the hidden pit. She kicked and bit me. Our pursuers would be on us soon. I could think of nothing else to do, but wrap my arms around her tight and leap into the pit.

  You probably can guess we didn’t die. The spikes, you see, are mostly in the center of the pit, so by jumping into one side, we avoided them. I replaced the flimsy hatch just in time and heard the goblins thundering overhead. They know enough to avoid the pit. That much they know. It’s one of the first things we learn. The fall made Spitty less bitey. Maybe she understands now what’s going on. She’s sitting with me in the dark listening to the goblins, while I take this opportunity to get this narrative up to date.

  I just heard the goblins saying humans are on their way. It appears they’re attacking. This could work out great for us! If nothing else, it’ll distract the goblins from chasing us and if all goes well, we can escape directly into the human’s patrol or army or whatever is coming.

  We’re very close to the front door and about to make a break for it. I heard Aug the Ogre growl out and charge from the cave down the hill. The humans must be close! I doubt there will be any guards at the door, but I’ve let Spitty hold on to the club. She’s capable enough with it. I’ve got enough just holding on to all my writing. Shoot. Looks like I dropped the first page somewhere. At least I have the important parts. Without it, I’m just another goblin in the eyes of the humans. Here we go!