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His clan was small, but cheerfully independent, occupying a strip of some desolate corner between the human kingdom of Degoland and Erenian, north of Hanat and Biston. He had sixty goblins on his host, and twice as much at home, counting kids, half-goblins and sixteen humans who worked the clan's land. For them all Don Alfonso will bring a new feat of victory.
It must be mentioned that the goblins of these lands value their worth by the animals and slaves they own. Don Alfonso wasn't different on that account, but his own approach was of considered them to be sort of a lower class of family members. That had allowed him to keep his slaves loyal, or, at least obedient, well into their adulthood, when most goblin lords would have rather sell them off or trade them for new kids.
Lobo was Don Alonso's pride and love. He had a few goblin and half-blood babies to inherit his name, but truly none of them ever made him half as happy. Victory ran in the beast's veins, for his ancestors, wild and free, had ruled the wilderness of Currupaw, hunting bison and facing the saber-toothed dinogorgons.
Lobo had learned the stories from her mother for these creatures can speak without words, and would love to live them out. But, above all, he was loyal to his master, and he and his siblings had served Don Alonso well, earning as many scars as glory and thrill for battle.
A week of horror had went by. Oribio walked as slowly as he could get away with. Like his sad companions his skin was covered in grime, sweat and scratches. His legs, sore from the forced march, sported bruises and blisters, while his back bore the marks of the bandits' impatience.
This was how it went. Oribio's last hopes plummeted when he discovered the line of captives that he was made to join: Two men, six women and sixty children, guarded by some twenty knights and forty men at arms sporting spears. Even if Biston's watch would find they would not dare to face them.
“St Valeria, spare my soul.”
The kid didn't expect to survive for much longer. Back at home he would had never imagine his body not to collapse after this ordeal. In that, he found a small bit of consolation and boyish proud. “I've made through the impossible.” He silently reminded himself more than once and his hopes were that St Valeria would pick his soul soon and take him to Heaven, shining above with the saints. Mercy would be his by virtue of grace alone.
“St Valeria, spare my soul.”
Oribio no longer had his blessed medal to protect him. Prayer alone kept him from falling. The words in his head were building his resolve beyond pain and fatigue. “This, too, shall pass. St. Valeria, keep me from sin, spare my soul.”
The human column halted. What the heck was going on? Oribio stood on his tiptoes, rising his neck to see the men on foot forming into a shield wall, while the riders formed into a wedge.
“Look! Goblins!!”
Should've they, the slaves, worried? Oribio had heard stories of cruel goblins and some of those were true. The prospect of ending up in a pot didn't seem that far-fetched now. Goblins, no doubt, would rather eat the fatty boy first.
But none of the captives ran away. Adults were restrained by fetters of iron, kids by exhaustion and the menacing sight of the wargs.
“Spare me, St. Valeria.”
Don Alonso patted Lobo, calming his own thoughts. The humans had spotted them right when the goblin chieftain had wanted them to be: where the track met a ruined inn. It was good warg country: a green flat land intersected by streams and bushes with a few lumps of trees; the remains of the farm stood right at the center with rolling hills surrounded it all from every side.
Don Alfonso decided to wait and hope for a mistake of his enemy. With only twenty warg riders at his side it would've been foolhardy to charge the human war band. If at all, he'd wait for the night and pester his enemy taking a prisoner or two. Not much, but what else he could hope for? Oh, a little parley might ease up the moods a little.
Don Alfonso rode slowly with his lancers at his side. The twenty human riders could indeed charge at them, but he counted on the humans thinking they had an army of goblin hiding somewhere.
“What do you want, goblin?! The human leader spat in the ground as his enemy got too close for comfort.”
“Your name, if I can be granted such a gift from your mercy.”
Oribio could not believe his ears. The goblin's speech looked like it was taken from a Zid's epic song, Cruceñan accent and everything.
“Call me Sir Chains. That's all I'll grant you, together with your life, if you surrender nicely.”
“Brave words from one who hides the truth. Well, my name is Don Alfonso de Tierraparda y Caninia, which is also known as the noble Dunland, son of Gulluk the Bold, and I shall defeat your host in battle or die under the sight of God Almighty, for you are an evil and powerful warrior; a fitting foe for my lance. Unless, of course, we solve our misunderstandings with wise words, or, lacking your goodwill, you accept my challenge on the field of honor.”
None among the humans could believe their ears. It was almost comical. This pitiful goblin, armed as a squire, and just as tall, was challenging a bandit knight, fitted with good armor and a true lance, to single combat. Now, who was this goblin? An unshaven short orc with dirty tiny tusks protruding from this foolish smile, a horned helmet that could have stolen from a theater, some older-than-God scale armor and a shield that looked older yet and with his bare feet in the stirrups of a warg who won't even show its fangs.
Sir Chains laughed. “I shall not fall into your snares, old boy. Men at arms, present your lances.”
Don Alfonso didn't wait for the human riders’ charge, but turned back with his goblins. A warg can be many things, but not faster than a horse, and they were outnumbered. His hopes rested on leading the humans as far as where the foot goblins were laying in wait.
“Halt!” Sir Chains' knights chased the warg riders up to the hilltop, but not any further without pause to scan the bushes. But of course! There, they were, kneeling against the bushes another twenty goblins holding a line of spears. Easy! Turn right, flank them, and then charge, the whole goblin line would scatter before the wargs could turn back to help them.
But Don Alfonso had a second, larger, less sloppy group, hiding for this eventually. Without a signal, knowing his role by heart, Killedsix, their commander, ordered his group charged the humans as they began their maneuver.
It was chaos and mayhem, for when the knights were about to re-arrange themselves, the rest of the goblins, came, wargs and all, from every side. Disordered the men gave ground, losing men here and there, until they dropped their weapons.
Sir Chains struggled ferociously to get himself killed. He'd not suffer the same humiliations and misery he had imposed on too many for too long. That hope would never come, for Lobo, jumping on the fraught bandit, knocked him down and pressed him into the ground long enough to be secured, and then led, together with the rest of the captives to a cave, to be guarded by the eldest goblins.
Once the knights had been dealt with, the footmen stood no chance. They tried, though, to the point of chasing their own captives away, and marching slowly in a tight wedge, northwards to Rocassonne, where slavers ruled.
Don Alonso dismounted, vociferating his orders with no other company than his friend, Lobo. Feint a charge, withdraw at the last moment, pelting the humans with missiles, stones if nothing else could be found, and move, move, move around, never exposing themselves.
Lobo barked.
“Not now, the day's not over yet.”
Lobo sat down, content with his rest. It was a bit odd that this fatty kid was sitting next to him. “Thank you for not eating me up,” Oribio whispered, and Lobo gave the boy's cheek a giant lick. Then, they both hushed down, for quite a while.
“¡Victoria, Santa Madre de Dios, ganamos!” The goblin spoke good Cruceño. “Did you see that ol' pal?”
Two hundred meters away the bandits had dropped their weapons amid goblin cheering. They were immediately disrobed and bound by the goblins on foot, while the warg riders rushed to go after the runaway slaves.
Don Alfonso flickered as he finally realized Oribio's presence. “Boy! What are you doing here?”
Oribio stood up. “Waiting to present myself to your mercy.” Oribio's words were good cruzeñan manners, “your mercy” being a formal way of address, if old fashioned. This suited the goblin lord, who relived the cruzeñan stories of his boyhood.
“But why didn't you run away?”
“I don't… I'm sorry. It's just that I'm too tired to run.” As if his words had conjured it, the memories of a week of harsh marching, little rest and meager food returned to his body, who sought support on the great wolf's body. This the warf accepted with a snore.
“Very well, welcome to our clan, Bulky. That is your name, so remember it. Be an obedient slave and we'll care for you. Now, come with me, there's some loot to share.”
Tharbal SteĂ°yahammar, the dwarf, shared Sir Chains profession, if by ways a bit more ethical and a tad more legal. He bought where it was cheap and sold where the demand was high. Rocassonne having a vibrant slave market was often on his route. Goblins, orcs, humans, drows, halflings, and anybody else, even other dwarfs, ended up in his merchandise, as long as the trade looked legal enough.
Life was sweet for Tharbal back then. Two scores of guards accompanied him on the expedition, together with another six which added to that responsibility the burden of trading and administrative work. Some eight trusted slaves cared for the needs of the captives, which, before his meeting with Don Alfonso, already reached two hundred and six, of every age and gender and quite a few races.
There's no question this was an arranged meeting. As in his usual understanding, the goblin dispatched a rider with the good news; the two groups meeting at some designated point. This took place two days after the victory. Don Alfonso traded his captives for the goblins in Tharbal's care and a small chest of coins; enough to keep his clan fed for winter.
Bulky was kept in the goblin's possession. He'd yet to decide if St. Valeria was protecting him for a worse fate, but it seemed so. He was outfitted as a peasant's boy; what had been his attire had also went to the dwarfs.
His has also been the fate of another four kids, all without siblings among the captives and none in good shape. Nails had been the name chose for a boy of twelve who lay on the slave wagon, recovering from a wound that would've ended him under Sir Chains' harsh care. Hushy, who was fourteen, just as Bulky, was sitting down, leaning to the wagon's frame, trying to cheer Nails up, despite his broken rib, courtesy of the human bandits. Finally there was Bee, a hobbit girl who've had it too rough to mention. None showed their pain and that pleased their chieftain.
Short after the goblins went out of sight, Sir Rendenval, known before as Sir Chains, approached the Dwarf Master.
“Do you know who I am?”
“I do, Slave 208-A-Z4B, so?”
Sir Rendeval's face turned red, his chained fists clenched firmly. “I can pay a hefty ransom for me and some of my men.”
“I know, so?”
“What are you doing? Barter?”
“Not really, I'm not interested. I’d rather trust a viper’s mouth than your word and I know you'll do a nice price in any market. Rocassone is grand on this season, I’ve been told.”
“Are you in your sane mind? We have both done this before, the black markets would only provide with a pittance. And you want to sell us legally, and in Rocassone where everyone knows me.”
“Why not? Those unfortunate kids right there are my witnesses, I'm rescuing them from the goblins, and your treacherous bandits. With any luck their cities will reward me for this feat and honor me. You see even humans would respect a dwarf who saves their wee ones from beasts like you. I’ll be known as Tharbal, the dwarf, the honest slaver, nay, the hero. I kinda like that. But you're a bandit, by law I could get you killed or send you to the court to be ashamed before the whole of Rocassone and then endure the reward given to a traitor. Is it crucifixion, impalement or something of the sort I believe. Be on your knees thank your god that your own laws allow me to enslave bandits. Now, shut up, you know what happens when you abuse a slaver's patience.”
A week after the battle, Bulky had recovered. Dunland, or Tierraparda, as Don Alfonso insisted on calling it, was home, workshop and fortress. In fall, it was witness a whirlwind of work, as all, from slaves to warriors, helped with the crops to end with a three days feast. In winter, warriors and children spent a mostly quiet, easy time by the fire. Slaves, freed from their tasks at the fields, took new responsibilities repairing and mending, and even making new gear for the warriors. Spring meant going back to the fields, and short raids for the
warriors. But there was nothing like summer for the wielders of spears. These were their yearly do-or-die; do well and riches will flow into the clan, do bad and it would mean sorrow and tears for next winter. Either that, or being subjected to some foreign warlord.
Bulky had been told about this already, but it was then that it sunk into him. From afar Dunland appeared as a natural formation, with even pines and bushes growing to it. Up close, it revealed itself to be a large tower of solid stone, surrounded by a wooden fence and a ditch. Beyond that, protected by crude wooden watchtowers, lay the fields of the goblins, with wheat and corn high. The boy sunk as he imagined his future: wake up, toil the fields, eat, toil the fields some more, sleep and repeat, until he'll be another bald boy, lying death on the steppe. Goobye to reading, praying, singing, writing, study history, nature or dream up weird inventions, like his mechanical sparrow. It could get worse. He knew goblins loved their dungeons, digging winding tunnels in
the search for jewels, or any ore. Goblins had been born on the dungeons, and were still creatures of the dark. That's were they gave birth their babies, bury their deads and worship their weird gods; deamons some said. And, who would build those tunnels?, kids like him, Bulky answered himself.
A procession of green flags emerged over the tall grass. Bulky froze, but eased himself as Lobo stayed relaxed and every goblin warrior chereed up. Ocarinas and drums began a boyish tune, one of those which tells about meadows, springs, hearth, pancakes and the laughs of children. Then, they saw them, the whole of Tierraparda coming to welcome their heroes and revell in their loot.
Bulky was surprised at how mundane the whole thing was. These were monsters with freak customs but they were just hugging each other, kids jumping into their fathers, mothers waiting for a long embrace. What's more, nobody was cruel or taunting to the captives. A little girl, half human by her looks, gave him a little bouquet of wild flowers and whispered: “We won't eat you.”
Don Alfonso greeted each and every one who had been left at home, not missing the servants, his eyes shinning in gladness whenever his courtesy was met with the same deference. “Welcome Don Alfonso”, “I missed you, Don Alfonso”, “We're always happy to see you in good health, chief”, and many other sentences of such manner that you wouldn't ever expect to hear from the lips of a goblin. This eased up the new captives, a bit. Bulky, on a fit of optimism, took Don Alfonso as a very rare exception to goblinhood. Surely, he'll be sent home soon, he thought, counting on Don Alfonso's disposition.
The warlord had reasons to be generous. This raid, the first of the summer, had been a great success. Don Alfonso saw his clan into the future growing in strength and respectability. Slaves will flow aplenty; nothing else made a goblin warlord prouder, to bring in many captives, good docile workers, happier under them than free. This was deep in their ideology, if it can be called as such, and they could see nothing inherently wrong in taking human or any foreign kids, goblin included, and enslave them. If anyone felt sad, that was their fault, for clinging to their old memories; it anyone died that was unfortunate, but they would've probably died under the care of their families, either way.
Those were the weak.
New victories and loot will make him known, and then the eight clans of the valley will join him, and, coming October, their combined forces will capture a human town, winning them too for his cause. Someday, somehow, King Alfonso would leave a Kingdom to his children; but there was still much battle and adventure than he could ponder though.
Lobo's plans, so to speak, were short termed and practical. And so, when the wargs were led to their underground kennels, he jumped and danced with all his family. These were his six pups, three months old, and so not yet ready for battle. He hadn't given them names, but his master had called them: Muerdemás, Ladraladrón, Adarga, Comodón, Asustadora, Vigilia, and Gordilla, and he associated those sounds to their smell, and they make him happy. The pups were already as large as a young wolf, but looked as toys compared to Lobo and her partner.
She, well, she smelled like wisdom, like a ride on the hills, like jumping over a tree, and chasing aurochs away. Above all, she smelled like love. It took Lobo some discipline to tend to his wee ones, with much leaking and jumping. Only when the wee ones were content, he and Loba met alone and did as Love told them to.
The rest of the day went swiftly. It started with a quick, improvised feast using much smoked fish and salted pork. The captives got a fair share of those, along with fruit and soup, which made a false impression. Ordinarly their lot would be restricted to porridge, lentils, onions and such. Their wake up call came soon enough, though, when they had to join the other slaves: humans and goblins alike to clear up the mess long into the night while the free goblins withdrew to more pleasant activities. It was made worse when they were led underground, through the tunnels to a small grilled trapdoor in the ground. Right there, going down by a rope ladder, would be their bed for the night.
As soon as the trapdoor was shut, and darkness engulfed all in the damp cavern, Bulky understood that his hopes for freedom were stupid. He'd live and die among these monsters, his family never knowing what had befallen to him. They'd look for him up in Sauvassone, but nobody would know him. Maybe, somebody will remember the kids that the goblins kept, but even then, how they could ever find him, so far into these dangerous land? Sleep didn't come easily, not for the want of good bedding and thick blankets, but for despair. Angry with himself, for not trying to run and hide when he had the opportunity, the boy went as far as to hit his head into the wall, getting some pain and a trickle of blood.
Thankfully, the rest of the kids were sleeping by then. He'd come with some accident to explain his injury, if he'd live that long. He prayed for death, to be carried to Heaven or even for Purgatory, as no boy “as stupid and wicked as me” deserved to see God. But these prayers weren't answered.
Except, maybe, in the form that his mind came up with the idea of converting the whole clan, winning all of them over to God. Was it impossible that God had ordained his kidnapping and enslavement for this purpose? Hadn't been St Patrick of ancient legend a slave himself? Well, he was no St Patrick, but if God led the way, he'll be well kept, and with God all things were possible. At least, that was his boyish faith.
Converting a goblin, not to mention a whole clan of them, was lunacy to almost every human, and, goblin of almost every age. Bulky even feared the whole thing of God's calling could be nothing by his imagination protecting him from the darkest corners in his mind. “Thank you, God” He muttered, setting his skeptical thoughts aside. Tough or tougher, he'll try hard and harder.
Bulky plucked out another stone with his adze and dropped it in the bag. Don Alfonso had it that they shall open a new field. Slavery, once the peril, fear, and even excitement of being captured, had passed was but drudgery. Food? He wasn't complaining: soup, bread or porridge fed him well enough. Clothing? He had just enough, and though sweaty and dusty, he had got used to his garments. Room? Most often he slept at the Hall, like any common goblin, not more, not less in that regard. Don Alfonso was a fair master and Bulky grew docile, resigned to this new life, with no hope of freedom.
This day came when one of the shepherd kids got sick. And when,they came asking for a replacement, Bulky raised his hands, both of them. It seemed exciting enough, at least compered to his previous standing. You'd go to the hill, up where the summer pasture lays, and watch over them for four weeks or so. Curiously enough, all the other slaves hid themselves as much as they were able.
And so, that very day, Bulky found himself with twenty sheep, two burly half-goblin kids, and a mastiff. Don Alfonso preferred to divide the clan's flock in small group. Should orcs or, worse of all, human reavers were roaming the fields, a smaller flock was harder to find, and, if the worst came to worst, the loss would be much smaller. Burly, as usual, was unaware.
Life, though, took a turn for the better. Spiky and Applely, the two half-goblins proved to be friendly and Imperator, the mastiff quickly accepted Bulky into the flock. The job wasn't too hard, mostly walking with the sheep, upwards, always upwards, but never for too long, for the animals needed their graze. The mastiff had its own jerky and salted pork. The boys their oat cakes and whatever they could find along the way: rabbits, mostly. Once, every three days, they'd pick up one. They had their slings and were good at it. Bulky got the hang of it almost immediately and it made him quite loved among his companion when he ended this particularly large hare, fat enough for even Imperator to have his share. That evening, by the fire, with their bellies well filled among the wilderness, the boys could imagine they were into this adventure for their own selves, free as the robins.
Orcs, however, were on their trail. Still far enough that they wouldn't reach them that night. The dawn was still peaceful and kids and mastiff took to their tasks of getting the flock moving. Two more hours went by before Imperator grew restless and then barked to the east, where the slope of the hill was broken by rocks and bushes. The kids gathered stones and hasted the animals, the mastiff guarding the rear.
Half an hour passed peacefully enough that the boys thought themselves. It could all have been the work of a single wolf who wouldn't dare to fight the mastiff, yeah that could have been. But then, the orcs appearing, yielding their
axes, four of them, sure of their prowess. Imperator charged at them, barking furiously, without regard for his life. The hero went as fast as it could to meet his only fate: defend his sheep, no matter what. The kids hurried the sheep, running themselves, faster and faster, higher and higher.
Burly lost his breath reaching the summit of the hill and hid among the rocks, while the last sheep went by. From his point he saw Imperator reduced to pulp by the orcs. Even so, he decided to stay put. He wouldn't run any more. While not, any longer a pampered child of the city, he couldn't yet compete with his friends. And he'd no give himself up to the orcs, either. Every one who had ever told him how “lucky he was to have Don Alfonso as master”, also told him how cruel the orcs could be. He'd be stripped, beaten, forced to gruesome work, left in the snow,
kicked, chained and worse, and, then, finally, find himself hanging from a tree, meeting a slow, painful dead.
No! Whatever would happen wouldn't be without a fight.
- * * * - * * * - * * * -
An orc fell with a roar. The other three warriors stopped to check for his comrade.“Bragwah!, said one of them. There was nobody to be seen except for the last few sheep rushing over the hill. Undeterred, the orcs ran after them. Those goblin boys would faint in fear at their mere presence; this was but a little game of hide, seek and kill.
Bulky accepted the fate of dying in battle. He imagined himself as the Sureñan heroes of old: “We won't surrender even our souls, for our ghosts shall keep haunting you until doomsday and all that bravado. Calmly, he dashed among the rocks who served him as cover and readied himself for another chance. Then this orc with red eyes painted on his cheeks stood to scan the field. Before him, Spiky and Applely, the two half-goblin kids were running for their lives, among the flock, the two other orcs in close pursuit.“Red-eyes” knew this couldn't be all, these boys couldn't have downed his brother and then ran that far. Somebody else was there and he'd have his entrails.
Bulky swung his sling in an horizontal motion, very close to the ground. Silently, smiling, he let it go and then dropped on the moss. The back of “Red-eyes” knee was then smashed, broken; falling the warrior. Bulky then stood up, and kept pelting his enemy until it could move no longer.
The two remaining orcs, unaware of what have just happened, were about to reach the boys, only the sheep serving as a last hindrance. But it wouldn't last long. Bulky then, did the unthinkable, he ran, after the orcs and his friends, but, I repeat, he ran, shouting what he believed a fearsome war-cry.“Wannakkillya!!!”
The orcs stopped, surrounded by a whirlwind of sheep and cried back. Bulky reacted by pulling out his sling, his friends doing the same. Still, the orcs didn't give up, or even feared to be in danger. Raging and shouting back, they kicked the sheep, killing four or six, moving fast out of the flock, only not fast enough.
The sling can be a fearsome weapon in the hands of those who know how to use it.
When Don Alfonso returned from his raid, the trio of shepherd boys were still on the field. Their orders were to keep the sheep grazing until the end of the season and, as slaves, they weren't going to break them just on the
excuse of having an encounter with some raving orcs. The loss of the mastiff had embittered their souls and made the whole work much harder, and the sheep restless, but wolves didn't show up to haunt it. They might've been, some say, feeding on the orcs' bellies.
That evening, over the fire, Applely meaning to chit-chat, made a burning question.“Bulky, why don't you run home?”
Sensing he could get himself in trouble, the human boy replied:“I don't know, why don't you?
“Duh, Terraparda is our home, we're goblins, are you nuts?”
“Nah, half-goblins and you, Applely, look human enough.”
Spiky came in:“Human, my green puke, have you noticed his pointy ears?”
Applely covered his ears while Bulky retorted.“Just use a hat, most human kids do that.”
“Not you.”
“But that's cause I'm Don Alfonso's now, and I've to do what he says.”
And just when Bulky thought the conversation was veering away from trouble, Applely pressed on.“But you have family, and friends, we'll let you go, say the orcs killed you, and… and… you can get a sheep, two! That's milk for the journey and you can do it, for us.
“I don't know… isn't that wrong?”
“What? Don Alfonso has lots, and you're a friend, you saved us!”
“But you'll have trouble. If he doesn't believe you…”
“Don't worry, we'll manage and…”
Spiky spoke then, solemn and sullen.“No, Spiky, not now. Let's go to sleep now, before we do something stupid. Bulky, if you do something while we sleep we might be too sleep to know, but we'll tell Master the truth when we go back home. He'll be a little mad, but as we also fenced off those orcs it won't be too bad with
us.”
Bulky moved away, and lay down among the sheep, fearing the whole issue of escaping would be far more dangerous than any of the three could imagine, feeling it would be disloyal to Master, would put his friends in trouble for Don Alfonso wasn't some dunce, and, worst of all, he thought, wrongly so, that the goblin Lord had a right to own him. And amid tears for home and dear mother, he succumbed to sleep.
Don Alfonso was there at the gate when the flock reached Terraparda. He had been waiting for them quite impatiently for two long days. The cause of his anxiety came from the news that had brought the envoy of Warmorth, a minor, if ruthless orc clan.
“Goblin!” The orc shouted at Don Alfonso as the former entered into the hall.“My lord demands gold or slaves for blood!”
The season couldn't longer be called summer, but Don Alfonso's blood boiled in his veins. How did that puny orc reaver dare to address him like that? Still, he chose to play goblin.“Greetings to your warlord too, and pray, tell, how have I wronged great 'War-moth' and how much of a compensation is due?”
“Our brothers that your warriors ended in the field of battle, near the Small Shepherd hill. Three dead, one wounded. It's sixteen gold weights, for each one, or slaves worthy of as much or the blood of your people. My lord, Warmorth will have his due one way or another.”
Don Alfonso paled. He hadn't send any warriors to the Small Shepherd hill, except, but they couldn't have ever, those kids? “And how does yourlord Warmorth knows it was my warriors who killed your brothers?”
“Because, puny goblin, we proudly attacked them.” My name is Bragwah, and I was there. And taking off his helmet, the orc showed his blackened temple, a wound that would've killed a cave bear.
The shepherd boys knew nothing of this when they ran to take refuge on Don Alfonso's mercy. “We're sorry, Señor, Imperator is lost.”
“I know, the orc told me.” And to stop their puzzlement, he led the kids to a certain tree that sported a new gruesome fruit: Bragwah's head. “I shan't be threatened in my own see.”
The boys paled. They've never seen their lord acting in such cruel manner, not even against goblins who had disobeyed him or slaves who had been caught robbing or worse. What have that orc done? Still, he didn't look displeased with them at all, much to the contrary.“I'm only showing you this so you know we're a proud and free nation, and now, let me show you a token of my gratitude.”
Applely got a fine dagger, freshly taken from a human knight, and the promise of freedom,“if you serve me just as loyally,” when he became old enough to marry. The boy appreciated much more the former than the later, for such are young minds.
Spiky received a fine woolen cape, an ornate shepherd hook and immediate freedom. He'd become, from then on, another of his vassals, equal in rank to any other, and, being fatherless, he'd sleep in the hall, next to Don Alonso's own children.
As for Bulky,“You will ride with me in battle, Lobo will take us both, ain't true, Lobo?”
The beast lowered his head and Bulky patted him,“and I brought you something from the last raid. Take it and do magic with it.”
It was a prayer book, a small one for the daily use of monks. Bulky trembled.“Thank you, Señor.” Had that book been plundered? Was even right to pray from a stolen text? Would it be a sin? Bulky pressed the book against his chest, silently praying for God's mercy.
That night the three boys took a seat next to the most noble goblins, to tell their exploits while everybody laughed and sang. Don Alfonso, alone, was deep in his thoughts, thinking what to do of Warmorth.
The time of Harvest went peacefully. Traditionally, it marked the end of the raiding season and that year wasn't an exception in Tierraparda. Only a handful of warriors kept to their usual business of protecting the land, everyone else, including Bulky and Don Alfonso himself, toiled to gather all manner of produce. After that, of course, came the traditional celebrations to the Goblin Goddesses and Gods. This proved to be a most festive occasion when all worries were cast aside, or, in the case of the likes of Bulky, left to the first hours of the night, when memories from home and freedom came to sorrowful hearts.
Bulky had already turned to prayer, inasmuch as he could steal time from his obligations. If confronted, he'd excuse himself telling he was doing magic, as his goblin Lord, Don Alfonso, has commanded him. In truth, the boy was praying for him and the whole clan with utmost sincerity and fervor. whenever he made it to Intercessions, that is. For the a typical prayer session went as it follows:
Oh God, come to my aid
Oh Lord, come to haste me
Glory to the…
Angels of God, praise the Lord
Prophets and Saint, praise the Lord
For he is Just and Righteous is his way
…
Glory to the…
[[ Three psalms ]]
[[ A short reading from Scripture ]]
[[A responsory ]]
[[A canticle, blessing the Lord]]
And, finally, then, the Intercessions. It was only then that, as Don Alonso putted it, Bulky did “magic”.
With harvest over, warriors put themselves to training, making and mending. The season of raiding had been wildly successful, so quite a few items of armor had been captured. The issue was to adapt it to goblin sizes. In that regard Bulky was put to work, not withstanding the fact that he'd never used a needle or hammer. He'd learned fast, for goblin warriors are an impatient lot which required practical gear delivered as fast as goblin-ly possible. Fortunately, they didn't demand finesse: if it fitted and did the job it was supposed to be, they'd be very happy with the whole thing. As fall was coming to an end, he was commanded to fix up for himself, getting a pot helmet that fitted him with some extra padding. No human already made armor fitted him, for these were tailored for grown men, but he improvised one with three buckler from human archers: the first one at his chest and the second one at his back would try to serve as a hauberk; the third one, he'd use in the regular way. The whole thing made him comical, but still it was better than nothing.
So, it came to some disappointment when Don Alfonso called him to a mission he'd be unarmed. It came on the first day of winter.
“Boy”, Don Alfonso said,“I've been called to the Gathering of War-Lords. Warmorth, and all the other orc great Lords will be in attending, together with one of their preferred servants. I'll be the only Goblin in attendance, and I've chosen you to come with me.”
“Yes, señor.” Bulky didn't quite understand the importance of the mission.
“Boy, in gatherings like this the orcs make their alliances for the new year, and try to avoid wars and strife about them. It's unusual for a goblin to be invited, so this is a great opportunity. With a good orc clan by our side, my Lordship could become a Kingdom. But, we must be humble, that's why we'll bring some treasure, and that's why you'll be coming too. Don't worry, there's a sacred law, secured by many curses from powerful shamans and the Great Ancestors: the orcs won't eat you. Just keep silent at all times, never look at an orc in their eyes, and it'll all be nice.”
“Yes, sir.” Bulky looked at his feet. Curses or not, he wasn't looking forward to meet any orcs.
The preparations for the Great Gathering of War-Lords were swift and simple. For Bulky that was to put on as many clothes as he could manage, for winter was in its way, and load a basket filled with treasures for the Great Orc Lords. Our Lord Don Alfonso donned his best suit of armor and rode his best warg, Lobo. Nothing and nobody else would be allowed as such were the Ancient Law of the Great Gathering, which Don Alfonso, a mere goblin, wouldn't dare to break. Not then, that was.
The trip to the gathering was just as unnerving as uneventful. Poor Bulky, wearing no armor, as it didn't befit a human servant, and carrying but a hidden sling, had already reasons not to trust orcs in general; but Don Alfonso seemed confident enough, believing that his reputation has called the attention of the Larger Kin, hoping he would be welcomed as equal among the Orc War-Lords. Goblin, or not, he has been more successful than any of them, and, it seemed reasonable that some would like to associate with him. It would take some negotiation, no doubt, and playing meek wee goblin, but he had the feeling this would be the beginning of a new kingdom founded in honor and justice; his kingdom. Just like the great human Sureñan heroes of old, he'd nobly defeat his enemies in battle, turn them into friends and forge a new nation, dying most heroically in the process, that couldn't be helped, but seemed to him the best way to die; and die he would, anyhow.
Expectations changed as soon as they arrived to the gathering. Bulky, with sore shoulders, painful feet and knackered as an old donkey, couldn't believe his ears, when the first greeting his master received was:“Softy old fool, your human cub is shod.” His Lord, believing this was some game of words among chieftains simply replied:“Yea, I'm a softy old fool, you see I'm even let my warg to eat orc meat, hey, I even leave some spare for my human cubs.”
There was quite a few grunting, spits and threats, but the Ancient Law of the Great Gathering was respected. Even so, Bulky was literally kicked into dropping his basket of presents. These went for the Great Orc Lord, Maltwarster, and out-shined anything the other warlords had brought:
Maltwarster was pleased, but that didn't help Don Alfonso much. His boy was perhaps treated better that his chieftain: chained by his feet to the slaves the other orcs had brought, he could rest and make some friends with his companions in misfortune. Don Alfonso, however, wasn't allowed to sit in the circle of chieftains, and was made to wait, at the center, quiet and sitting down, for the whole week, while the orcs argued to no end.
Yet, at the very end, the goblin believed his time had come.“Little one, Maltwarster finally said,“We've invited you hear to give you advice; heed to it. We don't mind your little wanderings and raiding the humans. That's what you goblins do. We… well, it was fun what your warriors did with those reavers… Warmorth, won't you kill yourself? The addressed nodded, knowing his few remaining followers were plotting to end him.“No, but, we've heard you have dreams and hopes… let me be clear, you may rob and plunder but don't take a single settlement, humans, elves, dwarfs, or even hobbits. Don't dare to seek alliance with them, or we shall end you. Orcs are conquerors, kings and lords, you are a lapdog. Remember it and you'll live, don't and you'll live longer, as my slave. Is that clear?
“I shall remember your words, Great Orc Lord.”
“Good, the Great Gathering is over. Peace until everyone is back at his home. Respect the Ancient Law of the Great Gathering, or you'll wish to be a goblin slave.”
Don Alfonso took Lobo and Bulky and returned home, quiet and surly enough to make boy and warg fear for their lives. But nothing came of that until they returned to Dunland
Don Alfonso was restless. Winter was in its full casting a shadow of gloom on the goblin Lord. How have dared them, the orc war-lords, to humiliate him in such manner? And they'd be at their dens, at that time, fattening up on the sweat of their slaves. Moreover, he didn't quite understand why they had left him alive and free. None of the chieftains had dared to approach his lands yet. Could it be, could it just be that they weren't not as strong as he had always assumed. He needed to know.
And so he summoned his seven best riders and send them to peek their noses in the orc lands, and see what could be wrong. Each will pretend to be an envoy, bringing sweet words and presents to a different Orc Chieftain. Thus, he'd play good wee goblin and gain vital information. If those orcs were indeed weak, then it might be time to raise as a great lord, over them if necessary. Yet, his preference had been humans, hobbits or even dwarfs. These would make far better vassals. Orcs? Well… In any case, he'd make his plan when he'd know.
Meanwhile, life had turned much sweeter for Lobo. Wargs had little to do in winter time, but having sweet love, and tend for cubs. And, he also had the attention of Bulky, who, bit by bit had become some sort of a human friend. Surely, nobody at Biston or any human city would imagine a “monster wolf” to befriend such a sweet boy, but there you had it. The kid even slept among the cubs, and smash quite a few of the fist-sized ticks that infested the great beasts.
Bulky didn't have much of free time, as it suited his station. The day was filled with training, which was mostly athletics, the handling of dagger and sling, bushcraft and wood lore. In one word, Don Alfonso wanted him to become a master scout. Besides that, if it wasn't enough, he'd be called to help with random errands any time he was found without anything to do. And those small times he spent in prayer and with his furry friends, down in the kennels. Sometimes, he could claim he was helping the animals; but you can't fool goblins too often.
And so winter went on, for goblins had nothing of the sort of Christmas, and just waiting for the whole damned season to be over. News were to come with the first flowers.
Don Alfonso's spies returned with rumors of war. Orcs were taking sides to fight one another, but no clear coalition seemed to be formed. Don Alfonso gathered his most trusted warriors, goblins like him, but for the last: Goldhair, the chief rider, Woodspirit the shaman, Veryberry, the wise woman and Narcelo, who, despite being a human captive as a boy, had raised to chief cook. Together, they'll decide what to do. Now, Don Alfonso was more fond of making up all plans by himself, quickly and without hesitation. That, he believed, was good for morale, as their subjects would follow a leader sure of his own authority. However, he was full of hesitation at this time. What to do when nothing ahead was clear but a chaotic storm?
Goldhair called for the return to a nomadic life: abandon Dunland and head for easier lands before it was too late. Woodspirit objected that Goldhair's idea would mean certain death for the elders and the little ones, shielding those who were sworn to protect them. And then everyone felt silent.
“Narcelo, Don Alfonso asked him“What's on that burning mind of you? The human was sweaty, trying to understand, firstly, why on the gods he had been summoned. Wasn't he just a little better than a slave? And what did he know about anything but pots and spices?
“Don Alfonso, I know what I'd do, but I'm sure you know what to do better than me.”
“I'm only asking what you'd do. I want ideas, not decisions, these I will make myself.”
“Don Alfonso, we should take a human town, a walled one, pacify it, make it the pride of our kingdom.” It had not been hard for Narcelo to come up with that idea; for he had known Don Alberto when he was just another little goblin prince, it has been the lord's lifelong dream.“The orcs will come to attack us, but if we resist one assault, we can pray for them to kill themselves out, if the humans armies don't defeat them first, that is.”
“Veryberry”, the wise woman, interrupted.“But what of Dunland and its clans? You cannot defend this tower and the fields. To that Woodspirit added,“Again, remember the elders and the wee ones.
Don Alonso put the end to the discussion, “We'll all depart; Dunland will be abandoned, if we stay, we'll remain at the mercy of the orcs, for we are amidst their tribes. We'll depart, I repeat, the elders and the wee ones will go first, with a good escort, we shall find a place to come. As soon as it can be done, everybody else, with as much treasure and supply as we're able to. But keep a tight tongue… I still need to think over this, we need a human town that we can take, but defend too, not destroy but rebuild, and, also, one that has committed acts of war against us goblins. Oh… I might change my mind… again, keep your tongues tight, speak to nobody and no one, until I reach my decision. We'll meet again, dismissed.”
Bulky sat down by the stream, completely exhausted, watching the little droplets of rain dancing with the wind, delaying their one and last kiss with the ground. His feet ached, his knees cried, his cuffs stung whatever was left of his legs. Yet, the boy smiled. He had been left alone for a precious hour, maybe two, with the winter sun at its highest, breaking in golden streams through the clouds.
St Valeria's day; was it? It might, he could barely remember what was to be at home. His mind had began to think in the language of goblins; was he becoming one? And tomorrow he was to march, ahead of the host, to some human city. Would it be Biston, would it be home? The clouds broke and their shadows began to play with the insects of the ground; and a fairy or two, as well. Bulky smiled at the idea; there it was, his teenager mind playing tricks with him again. Would he ever grow up? But, tomorrow, he'll be in war again, just when he killed those evil orcs. Could he call himself a boy ever again? Mother, where are you?
He closed his eyes to see her again, leaning on the window, her sweet voice singing over the mandolin. His child could see her dressed in white and blue, wearing a pair of off brown slippers, taking great care on each note and word. Oh, how often he had cursed himself for not thinking in the beloved language of his mother, Sureño, and not that harsh language of the north, his home town. But again, he had only be in the Sur as a baby, and there was nothing we could remember of it, but as his parents had told him. And now he wasn't either a Northern boy, or a human, but a goblin slave, perhaps a traitor.
“St. Valeria…” he mumbled, and she came, dressed in a white tunic, crowned with flowers.“Rest, my boy, let's pray together, for it's much that you have been entrusted.” And following her lead, the boy prayed and sung, as he had done in her chapel, many months away, under the midday sun.
And some would have called it a miracle
The clan had gathered, ready to depart, to conquer or die, but never to return. The orcs, some had whispered, had marched against them. Riders stood on their wargs, in a proud display of goblin-hood. Skirmishers aligned themselves, in neat rows. Behind them, in a wavy column, the whole tribe awaited for Don Alonso, their lord. The hopes of the dearest elders were with him for the orcs would have no use for them. The youngest slaves, too, wished the best from the expedition; even though these goblins could be wicked, they were fairer than even a human master; while those orcs would work them to death, and worse.
Don Alonso rode Lobo, his warg, slowly. Bulky, his human pup, walked by him, wearing the garments of a scout. The world stood silent. Don Alonso clenched his spear, smiled to the crowd, his people, and went on, approaching the ancient giant oak from which he was to deliver his address. Lobo smelled fear, but complained not, given stern gazes of submission to those of his kin. Behave, children of the moon, we're loyal. Such were the thoughts of the great wolf, and so were understood by his peers. Bulky was uneasy, too, unaccustomed to be in the center of it all, even if only by virtue of being a runner for his lord. St Valeria, pray for Don Alonso.
The dreaded moment came.“Children of the Rain, our Mother, Children of the Wind, or Father, goblins, and… Don Alonso stopped. Slaves? That's true, but… can't find a word“everyone else, I have gathered you to… Say it, old fat goblin, say it! Wasn't this your hour? Wasn't this your dream? When, else, you'd be another, greater, Alcid? But I'm not sure! Sauvassonne, the slaver city should know our ire, my glory is to be done there! But I'm not sure! Aren't we slavers too?
The tribe stood silent, amazed at their leader's indecision. Say it! Old fart! Say it and be over with it!
St Valeria appeared by the goblin lord, though only Lobo could smell her and only Bulky, the human slave boy, could see her. She said nothing, but joined her hands in prayer and the boy smiled.
“I am sorry, Don Alonso finally said,“I've gathered you here for death and glory, but I've learned my plan was a mistake. We're too weak to take any human city, except by guile, and even so… if I fail at the gates of the humans, the orcs will get us without walls. The orcs, they'll not gather against us, they can't agree to drink for their lives. We'll defend ourselves if need be, and we shall defeat them.”
At any other time, there would be a roar of approval after that sentence. But it all sounded to the goblins like words to comfort a dying girl.
Maltwarster, the Great Orc Chieftain, laid moribund, twice stabbed by his sisters, who prepared to duel. They tell you orc women ruled from behind, whispering at their men what they are to say are do. Well, they lie. It all came down to failure; that pesky goblin hadn't marched against Sauvassone, as the spies predicted, and the orc horde had found itself on the plains before the great city, exposed to the human army that hastily gathered against them. For this fault their brother was paying in blood.
“Come, sister, come to our brother, join him!” Those were the words of the eldest, Kergsters, of the long arms and serpentine tattoos. She raised her ax tall over her head, a flag of sorts for her new reign, even if it was to last but for an hour.
Hagsters, the naked, the strong harpy who despises clothes spit at her sister's face. Sword and sword in hands, her breasts stained by his brother's blood, the orc witch stamped on the grass.
Maltwarster's tribe, if indeed it could still be called son, watched as they formed for battle. This what not what their leader had promised. Those pesky goblins should be falling before the human swords at that very moment, only for them to charge the flank of both warring armies, and kill them all, somehow…
Hagsters advanced to her sister's side, avoiding her ax; her swords raised as shield. Kergsters replied, spinning on herself, that ended with a swift kick to her sister's ankle. Hagsters howled in pain, but didn't fall. The orc women danced, so it would have seemed, against each other, none gaining the upper hand, until Hagster's left sword cut a terrible line through her sister's cheek, who avoided death by a heart beat's time. Kergsters didn't yield, but could no longer think straight, the pain consuming her. Again, the naked harpy, hurt again, this time a shallow stab to her left knee. Would this be her end? Darkest Lady, help me! It seemed unfair, that each and every time, her tactics outdid Hagsters' and yet, she was finding herself too slow to hit her sister; if only her vision would hold a little longer, enough to take her rightful…
But the Darkest Lady had made her decree, and the Fates wouldn't yield to the eldest sister whims for life and victory. With a quick, delicate cut, Hagsters undid her abdomen. Kergsters fell, on her brother, joining into his long, painful trek to death and oblivion.
Hagsters roared.“Hagster's tribe, obey your War-Lady. Shield wall, shield wall! We'll stand here their charge! Let's see if we can carry ourselves. Scream, scream but keep your courage, there's no outrunning of those horses, and nothing we can gain from dispersing. Let's stay put, and we might live, let's stay put and live or die as warriors!!!”
- * * * - * * * - * * * -
The orc horde was over, their warriors laid on the grass, except for the few scattered survivors who had run to the wooded hills. The garrison of Sauvassone, though victorious, was neither in good shape; but the reinforcements sent by the other cities of the Serene Republic could now be used for another purpose: persecute the orcs over the hills, burn their strongholds and, finally descend on the goblin's valleys. Orcs never made good slaves, even if captured and held with fetters of iron, they could erupt at any time, attacking their masters, even if that meant certain suicide. Goblins, however, could be more easily managed and had great uses for the mines. Lastly, and more importantly of all, was the land to be acquired itself. Those hills were rich in ore, and, once fortified, become an strategic region for the Republic. As for the goblin valleys of Dunland, human lairds, and their slaves, will turn the region into a prosperous land. The victory over the orcs at Sauvassone had made the dream possible.
Life in Dunland had become unbearable. Don Alfonso, the goblin Lord, looked increasingly deranged. That's what you get for believing human tales. None spoke of rebellion, but none trusted the old fart as they once did; all past victories forgotten. He had ordered Dunland to be fortified, by building palisades, walls and towers; making everyone, slaves specially, sore and sour; he had raided the nearby orc tribes, routing them, only to see another one coming to punish them out of the land of the living.
Then suddenly, the orcs stopped. Rumors of a human force, the army of slavers, had finally forced the passages among the hills, burning and killing. Dunland would have to fight; there was no escaping, not any longer; except to the western hills, to face starvation next winter. Don Alfonso, again, gathered the troops.“We'll face them in the forest, where their horses cannot maneuver but our wargs can dance. If we win, we shall be free another year.”
They all understood, but nobody cheered. This wasn't their leader of all, presumptuous and wild, but energetic and charismatic. This was but a broken person who had abandoned his only chance at making his dream, and it could only hope for survival. That was true, and even worse: knowing he'd never become like the human heroes of old, and couldn't yet trust in the holy books of the humans, he no longer believed in the gods of the goblins. And yet, he still had to lead his people in battle.
“…that I may die nobly, and my children be of sense…”
Don Alfonso stood on his warg, at the head of the best of the goblin riders. These were his best, the most experience, older warriors; the last reserve, the ones who would save the clan or die trying. The meadow before the the valleys was peaceful, the wind carrying but the faint echoes of the battles that were raging among the hills.
A trickle of hope had improved the chances of the goblins. This took the shape of survivors and refugees from the orc tribes. No, not so much the proud warriors that wouldn't fight for a goblin lord, for any reason, but their vassals and slaves. And so, Don Alfonso's clan found itself reinforced by hobbits, humans, dwarfs and goblins who had endured the monsters' servitude and who didn't look forward for other cruel masters. Those orc warriors, however, had helped Don Alfonso, indirectly, by fanatically fighting the invaders, in hopeless battles and ambushes, whenever the opportunity to die honorably presented itself.
Our hero, however, was somber and broken. It had all begun as a little childish game, hadn't it? The goblin prince who learned the stories of the Southern Kingdom from Sureños captives and decided he would grow up to become one of them. Like if a human would ever respect a goblin! He had even took a Sureñan name, and kept it into adulthood. But, worst of all, he had allowed the heroic ethics of the Sureñan stories to creep into his judgement for battle. The truth was that he hadn't attack the humans of the Serene Republic for any military reason; but because he had found it unethical to do so. Why? Yes, it had turned out good, but only for the orcs interference and stupidity. And now those same humans he had refrained to attack had come to enslave them all, without the courtesy of a declaration of war.
Worse of all, he no longer trusted the Gods and Ancient Ancestors of the goblins; but neither was ready to accept the Savior of the humans. Was of the humans only? Scholars and theologians hadn't reached a consensus. And there he was, a little goblin, by birth an enemy to humankind. He'd…
“Lord, Señor… Señor”
His human scout, Bulky, took him out of his inner battle. Don Alonso's smiled, this one was no longer the fatty kid who hadn't even tried to escape from his capture. Half a year in the company of goblins had made the boy agile, muscular and quick as a young wolf.
“Lord, they have broken through the Etivebeag!” The hills and valleys had forced the humans to split their army into a dozen divisions. Don Alonso's warriors by hitting and running had been able to stop each and every one, for the wargs were far more agile than horses on broken ground. This Etivebeag, the boy was referring to was the widest among the valleys, where the core of the human cavalry had pushed on.
“Very well, Bulky, let's meet our guests.” Saying that, he motioned the human kid to ride on his warg, with his Lord. Lobo, Don Alonsos' warg relaxed for the first time in two months. The mind of his goblin seemed much more clear, focused, all signs of anxiety gone.
“Lord and savior, ride with me on this solemn hour, that I can save my people and bring glory to your name.”
Don Alfonso, the goblin, smiled at himself: that prayer came straight from the“Song of Alcid, the greatest among the Sureñan heroes of old. And with that in his heart, he raised his sword to order the riders march,“forward, against the heathen!
“Lord, Lobo I'll find you, I shall find you.” The boy struggled to walk on the moor, his feet sinking ankle deep into the mud. He had lost one shoe, his face sported a cut that he didn't mind, his dagger had become dull. But where was Don Alonso, where was his first friend the dire wolf called Lobo?
“Bulky, dismount and gather all the stragglers, tell them to come to Moormore, we'll meet there, quick!” Those had been the last words he had heard from his master.
The boy ran; ran and shouted as hard as his young body allowed, until his throat couldn't bear it no more. He dazzled through the grass, splashing as he went, under a horde of angry dark clouds. To him, from every rock and corner, a friend came, rising a spear, a single shield or even a rock. There was hope, for our War Chieftain would charge and he'd never been beaten in battle. In that moment you'd be excused to believe the little slave boy was in charge of a ragged goblin band, wilder than any of them, and listening neither to fear, nor to pain, nor to exertion.
When they arrived, the human rearguard was attacked through the flanks, with the best warriors the small goblin kingdom had mustered.“The rear! Let's close the rear! The young boy shouted and no goblin warrior, no hobbit slave, no late ally doubted his words. They, the ones who an hour earlier couldn't hold it any more would follow the boy and charge the human knights, the evil slavers, in shinning armor.
The human vanguard was deep in the moor. There, the heavily armored cavalry sunk, though still fighting ferociously at a thin, dispersed line of goblin riders, Don Alfonso among them.
Many confused things happened. Bulky could remember but running under the horse, slashing, ramming, stabbing, blood, wounds and cries of pain and surrender. Somehow, he made it alive.
The battle over, the goblins had caught many horses and a handful of prisoners. This was the flower of their cavalry; Dunland, the land of the goblins was safe; Don Alfonso, again has been victorious where a victory had seemed folly and impossible.
The moor was full of horses; almost every warg and rider of the reserve had shared their blood with the moor. Much many more horses and knights agonized in the mud, begging for a quick release. But there was no sign of Don Alfonso and his warg.
And thus, Bulky had began a frantic search for them. Lord, Lobo, I'll find you; just hold on, hold on a little longer. The boy pressed on, under the rain, white lips cold, quivering, with every muscle sore, but keeping on nonetheless. Many other goblins, his children included, were looking for the chief. Why would I find him? But, despite his own doubts, he dragged on through the mud, slowly and stubbornly.
What was that among the bushes and trees? A hideous knight, with broken lance and sword, and a dire wolf facing him, bloody, moody, but showing its ferocious fangs. Lobo! So the goblin that sat up on the mire, struggling to stand up under the hail had to be Don Alfonso.
The boy didn't shout, but went for his sling, loaded a missile of lead, and let it fly straight at his enemy. Yet, this knight was protected by layers of steel and padded cloth. It hurt, but it didn't injure him, and the boy went for another one, while the knight decide to take a run at him; believing he'd be faster than the wounded warg.
It wasn't so, and the warg didn't bother to attack honorably; biting the horse legs, he made the knight fall and then the human ended it all by himself; horrified of the possibility of being made a slave of the goblins; his family owned a hundred of those in the coal mines.
Warg and boy went to each other. There was a quick hug, a kiss and a lick, and the two servants rushed to the chief, who was kneeling on the mud, leaning on his own spear. He had a few cuts, quite too many bruises all over his body, but worst of all was a stab on his side, a wound that would eventually infect.
“Oribio… the Lord has shown me mercy.”
“Yes, my Lord. Lobo, Lobo can run, get help, the shaman will heal your wounds”
“He might. But, just in case, if the Lord is my friend, can I meet him properly?”
“Lord?” But the boy didn't wait for his reply,“Lobo, run, seek help! And the animal did as much.”
“Oribio, there's water, you can perform the sacrament.”
Now the boy almost cried. Yes, his master was using, for the first time, his proper name, the one he had been give at the baptismal font, and was himself asking for baptism. The boy knew that, on the risk of death, it was allowed for any believer to baptize anybody. There was nothing about goblins, but he sensed Grace was at work there, and he didn't fear.
And so Don Alonso was baptized, and was crowned a King by the bishop one month later, one day before receiving the last rites and succumbing to his wounds. Lobo cried for a month, and would have gladly die of grief, but their pups called him and he returned to sense.
As for the boy, he received freedom as his inheritance, and returned home with the bishop; set on joining the monastery as soon as he'd become of age; much to the relief of his father, who feared what stain on his reputation this “goblin kid” of his would have.
But those are stories, if they are ever told, for another time.
All hail Don Alfonso de Terraparda,
Greatest among the Great Goblin Chieftains
King of Dunland
and the Wild Lands,
prince among prince
ferocious warrior
perfect rider of wargs
humble and generous in victory
loyal to the end
merciful and compassionate
terror of orcs,
scourge of slavers,
noble King,
loyal servant of God,
a hero we'll never forget,
though a bit loose up there in the head!
